


Choking Curiosity

by averageAdrenaline



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, All Cops Are Bastards, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexual Michael, Bruises, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Enemies to Weird Roommates to Lovers, FTM Reader, Gender Dysphoria, HRT, Indirect Kiss, Knifeplay, M/M, Mugging, Murder, Needles, Past Child Abuse, Reader-Insert, Sign Language, Stalking, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Vandalism, but only from irrelevant characters who get murdered, description of a prosthetic weiner, male reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:54:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 26,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23113525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/averageAdrenaline/pseuds/averageAdrenaline
Summary: Nothing interested him yet, things only become valuable with the way they are used. Like people.You've piqued his curiosity. Lucky for you he decides to indulge it before the one that itches for blood on his knife.[Reader is trans male. I'll be adding tags as I go, it's marked explicit bc you WILL be topping michael later]
Relationships: Michael Myers/Reader, Michael Myers/You
Comments: 122
Kudos: 433





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I dig the 80’s so for all intents this fic takes place then, but don’t start fact checking bc this is a self indulgent fic and i don’t really care about accuracy but it DOES take place 2 years after 1978 so that’s continuity. The reader is ftm (on HRT, pre surgey) bc I’m literally writing about myself for kicks and I know a lot of trans stuff wouldn’t be feasible in the 80’s so call it an au earth if you will. I don’t know anything about the layout of Haddonfield nor will i look it up. Legit listening to 80’s pop 24/7

You made it. 

Haddonfield, Illinois was probably the last place you expected to end up, but your savings stretched just enough here to buy the cheapest house you could find. It had been sitting vacant for multiple years; a grisly murder and fixer-upper exterior scaring away most potential buyers. You aren’t afraid of ghosts anyway.

The Strode Realty sign out front is plastered with a red and white SOLD sticker. The lady you signed the papers with- you think her name was Laurie - promised she would stop by to remove it. She wrote her number on a card and told you to call if anything strange happens. something was off about her demeanor, but you were too preoccupied with the check you were handing over. She had also pressed the fact multiple times that the locks had not been changed since the property’s listing, but you didn’t tell her that you were in no position to change them considering your funds had run dry buying bread and peanut butter the day before. 

Your dinky car sputters its final breath at the curb when you remove the key, it got you this far on fumes. Items tumble free when you pop the crammed trunk, filled to bursting with all your material possessions stuffed inside. You manage to jostle the door open with your key and step across the threshold, breathing in the stale air of your new shelter. The glass in the door is broken, but that would be a problem for later, you can tape it up for tonight. It’s dark inside, you hadn’t paid for utilities to be turned on yet. Opening the windows satisfied you for now. You’ll make a list of everything needing repair later, right now was the time for carting your moving boxes inside and unpacking.

With an entire house to fill, you are faced with the fact that you don’t have a lot to fill the space. All you can do is cross your fingers and hope that what you have can last you until you start working at the grocery store for the time being. You’re surprised you hadn’t been kicked out earlier when you didn’t have as much to your name. After depositing the last box you sit on the porch, your porch you muse, as the last of the day’s sunlight melts out of the sky and sweat slides in areas you try not to think about. The money you had saved so carefully was supposed to lift the weight from your chest but you guess you can settle for that in a metaphorical sense instead. 

The crunching of grass draws your attention to someone approaching from the adjacent yard adjacent to yours. An old man in sunhat and stained gardening clothes stares at you, then points to the “sold” sign. You push off your knees to stand when he doesn’t move closer and go to introduce yourself as his new neighbor, you assume.

“Do you know what happened in this house?” his voice was pitched in a gravelly accent that you aren’t familiar with. The question catches you off guard. He hadn’t offered a name when you greeted him, only a mischievous wrinkled smile and a glint in his eye that defied his age.

You know there had been a murder - one reason the house was so cheap- but you would’ve had to find out the rest of the story in newspaper records at the library, so you shake your head hoping he’ll recount it.

“I can’t remember how many years ago, I’m too old. There was a little boy who lived in this house, same age as my granddaughter, but he never talked to us. Anyway, it was on Halloween, Sherrie and I were going to sleep and his mother starts screaming. She tells me “go outside, Abtin,” and there’s all these police people in the front yard. The little boy, Michael, had killed his older sister!”

Your surprise must have shown on your face because he starts cackling and slaps you on the shoulder, the tension dropping. but he suddenly sobers up before you can ask if it was a joke.

“He got out two years ago, so you better be careful.”

Your eyebrow scrunch. “He was released?” You guess people can change.

“He escaped. Hurt some people, but he was never found”

 _Or not._

A beat draws out.

“So how old is your granddaughter?”

This changes the mood and the topic to your relief. He waves you over to his front door and starts shambling back as he talks.

“She just turned twenty-one this year. Come, come, Sherrie made extra dinner tonight.”

***  
A home cooked meal like you haven’t had in years warmed you from the inside as they sent you home with a small plate of leftovers. Tonight you were happy, and that was more than you dared to hoped for.

The empty house around you was unfamiliar, but the silence made you feel safe. There were plenty of thoughts that tried to sneak into your head as you made yourself comfortable in your sleeping bag on a bare mattress _-what if the murder happened in the bedroom you chose-_ but you ushered them away as you focused on the sounds of your new place. The crickets were pleasant, every so often the wind would make the shutters creak. You were exhausted in every sense and drifted off to the soft breathing of the house.

***  
Shadowed eyes watched from behind the backyard fence, unwavering in his stake out since a noisy realtor invaded with another man at his heels. He was nearly caught unawares, silently exiting out the back door to wait for them to leave. His irritation rose as it became evident that Laurie hadn’t returned. She hasn’t stepped foot in the house, and every attempt to stalk her has become difficult. 

Michael isn’t stupid. He weighs his options, knowing that killing the two of them now would bring more attention to the house than he needed -they wouldn’t be as easily disposed of as the occasional trespassing teenager. No matter, they wouldn’t find anything other than normal remnants of a squatter.

Nobody wanted this house, he was sure. The back door of the porch screeched and he could hear prices being thrown out as the two people stepped into the sunlight. Michael silently memorizes the realtor’s face.

“Look kid, I feel for you- I really do- but I can’t go lower than fifteen thousand”

The person who isn’t the realtor stiffens and crosses his arms. His voice was steady and mature as it came out, but Michael could read his fear.

“This house has been sitting vacant for almost twenty years and is in pretty bad condition. It’s going to need a lot of repairs and the housing market is crashing. I’m the only interested party and I can afford thirteen.”

The squabbling lost his interest until the man in the suit frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose and Michael could hardly hear the way he muttered under his breath.

“This shitty house was a gamble anyway. Fine, you have yourself a deal.” his face was sour as they shook on it.

Following their retreating footsteps, Michael’s indifference was tinged with something he hadn’t felt since his last kill. Anticipation. Not much, but perhaps with someone in the house he won’t have to resort to other unsavory methods for a meal. People have been locking up more after what happened and breaking in to raid a pantry would be more risk than it was worth.

Another afternoon passed until he saw the familiar car arrive, watching the small man struggle with loads of boxes in the summer heat was mildly entertaining. The approach of the nosy old man next door was predictable. Michael’s eyes narrowed at the dramatic retelling of his life, passively considering the worth of killing him. 

Premeditated murder was new to him. He didn’t like to give up control, especially not over his house. Not being able to kill who he wanted, when he wanted? oh he hated that. 

He entered his home the same as he always did. The lock on the back door would never fully click shut, it’s easy to miss if you don’t jiggle the nob the right way. If he truly got locked out he could easily reach through the broken glass of the front door, but he’d have to wait until dark.

To his surprise, it looked like most of the boxes were already unpacked. It was still barren as all hell and a lot of things were stacked in piles, not truly put away yet. If there was one thing you had a lot of, it was books. Michael was never interested in reading, but he perused the titles anyway.

Nothing interested him yet, things only become valuable with the way they are used. Like people.

He watched you return home that night, methodically shutting all the windows before retiring upstairs to the room you unpacked your suitcase in. From behind the slats of the closet door he studied the way you tiredly shucked your sweat stained jeans with your back to his hiding place. 

He’s watched men before. The first time he was spooked when his body reacted the same way it did with women. He maintained his self-control this time, until your shirt rose over your head to reveal something he’s never seen before and his hands clench around the grounding familiarity of a knife handle.

Your binder was sweaty and you peeled it off with relief, massaging your chest and stretching before pulling on a pajama shirt. You calmly slip into sleep with the illusion of safety, while Michael’s thoughts race.

His eyes trace the beard lining your face, the stubble lining the sharp edges that hasn’t seen a razor in a few days. He tilts his head as he tries to make sense of what’s in front of him. The itch to wrap his hands around your throat fades as he embraces this new curiosity.

Michael wants to know more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sat down after work and wrote this in one sitting so I gotta ride out this inspiration high as long as possible my dudes

You wake up feeling much better than when you had to sleep in a car. You’re still dirty, but the utilities should be turned on today now that the house is under your name. You got lucky with the service providers, convincing them to lump the turn on fees with the bill at the end of the month. You begin to make your rounds to assess the damages, which you find that, over all, isn’t too bad other than it needs a huge deep clean. 

Repairs list:  
Front door window  
Upstairs room window  
Some house siding outside in front is falling off  
Termites on the porch  
Change locks  
Get rid of ugly wallpaper  
Outside needs paint one day  
Surprisingly, there wasn’t any graffiti or even squirrels in the attic. The kitchen and bathrooms were out of date, but they worked (you think). You think about all the household items you need to make this work and your head beginning to ache at the length of that list.

At least you start a job today. It’s at the same grocery store your card nearly declined at, but it was better than nothing, especially at such short notice. 

You lock up before leaving with time to spare and a peanut butter sandwich in your jacket pocket, remembering the signs of a squatter when you were touring the house. You were very close to being homeless yourself and you don’t think you would have the heart to kick someone out if they showed up, but luckily you haven’t seen them since the sold sign went up. Speaking of which, you wonder if you can catch Laurie when she stops by, it would be nice to have a friend around here other than your elderly neighbors.

***  
Stocking was boring and customer service was typical, but it put money in your pocket by the end of the week. Thank goodness- you were getting really tired of peanut butter.

Laurie must have stopped by while you were out because the sign was gone after you got home from work the other day. You consider calling her, but don’t want to come off as a creeper and decide against it, instead busying yourself with scrubbing years of grime from the house. 

She said to call if anything strange happened, and you don’t think anything worthy of calling has happened yet. You almost wish it would because it was starting to get boring. 

Although, you’ve noticed things have been moving around a bit. At first you chalked it up to your tendency to misplace things, but by now you’re considering the idea of a ghost. You definitely want more concrete evidence before you go crying haunted to someone though, so for now your going to have to live with hide and seek house keys.

Leaves have begun to fade into orange hues and you relish the last of the summer breezes while you walk home from work. You think you can afford some second hand furniture soon and really bring some life to the house.

Your keys jingle in the door and you leave them in your shoes after taking them off, shedding your binder before heading upstairs to turn the shower on. It feels weird to be shirtless out in the open, but you insist to yourself that you’re alone and should at least have that freedom in your own house. 

The hot water feels wonderful, but you keep it short as the water bill nags in your mind and try your best not to track water through the house as you shuffle to your room in a towel. You get a chill and pull it tighter around you, it’s dark out already and the nights are getting colder.

Stumbling and bracing yourself against the wall as you pull your pajama pants up your wet legs, you glance out the window, remembering you don’t have curtains yet.  
You freeze. You pull the towel off the floor to cover yourself again as you peer harder out the window, trying to see against the glare of the ceiling light.

_There’s a figure standing by the fence._

You step away from the windows with calculated breaths and quickly pull on a shirt. Panic rises for a moment, _you don’t have a phone and even if you did the police won’t help you_ \- you squash it down. 

You stay low and snatch up the baseball bat beside your mattress. It was a small pink one you used as a kid, but it was solid metal and you kept it for this reason. 

Slowly making your way cautiously through the house, you slap on the back porch light before opening the door.

“Hello?”

There’s no response. The light doesn’t reach far enough for you to see their face but you can see a bit of blue overalls and you think they’re wearing a mask.

You take a deep breath and hold the bat in front of you, stepping onto the steps now.

“Hellooo?” you stretch it, sounding more irritated. What else would you say?

They don’t move as you gingerly approach. The moon isn’t bright but you start to see a little more. A ski mask?

It’s a few feet away, you stretch with your bat and poke the figure in the chest. It falls, startling you some. Poking it again you realize its fake, letting out your held breath.

The adrenaline in your body fuels anger at being messed with.

“Really funny guys! Thanks a lot!,” you shout to the general vicinity, hoping the pranksters could still hear your annoyance. Looking around you, you don’t see anyone, so you turn and head inside. It’s supposed to rain tonight, if they want their scarecrow back you hope they like the smell of wet hay.

***

A pair of eyes lock onto your form when the door opens. The teenagers have come and gone, snickering as they laid out their plans under his gaze. He could’ve killed them for this immature offense, propped up one of their bodies instead. They left him waiting. _watching._

Michael’s patience won out as he saw you tentatively open the door. One of your arms were crossed over your chest defensively, betraying your bold attempts with the bat by making you seem smaller. You’re wet hair shined under the yellow light, the night making you shiver and bite your lip.

Your voice rang out and he was pleased by your obliviousness, allowing him to drink up your reactions from a close proximity. He could almost make out your expression as you clenched your jaw. 

You marched inside, giving him a good view before slamming the door. Michael liked the frustration, the wariness. _Cute._ But he didn’t see what he wanted tonight.

Michael wants to see what your fear looks like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you think it was mikey standing there? lolololol  
> Alternative note: Michael Myers is an ass man
> 
> also i really hope I'm not writing him out of character (for 1978) so if you think he is PLEASE tell me so I can fix it


	3. Chapter 3

It rained last night as you expected. The sound of dripping rips you out of your half-sleep state in the dark, rushing you to grab anything that can hold water. The leak was coming through the ceiling of one of the rooms across the hall from yours. You expected for something like this to come up, but to say this disappointed you was an understatement. How are you supposed to fix a roof issue? Then you realize if it’s dripping in here, the attic must be worse.

You add roof leaks and water damage to your list of repairs.

You could see the color of the sky changing slowly out your window and flop back onto the mattress, annoyed with the rough sleep you’ve gotten. 

You work the morning shift today and you don’t trust yourself to wake up in time after this so you let the sleep deprivation sink in while you stare at the ceiling. The sun rises over the horizon before you finally get up and yawn your way into the bathroom to brush your teeth.

You consider having cereal, but decide it’s too early for it. You hate cereal anyway. Peering out the back window, you see the dummy from last night lying in the mud and snort. It reminds you of that last movie you saw before everything went down the drain. Maybe you should keep it as a halloween decoration? If it’s still around after your shift you’ll sit it out to dry next to the steps. 

You don your uniform, knowing you’ll regret not having breakfast long before getting home- but you’ll live. You apply some chapstick before leaving, relishing one of the few luxuries you could travel with. The keys were in the same spot you left them for once, maybe today won’t be too bad?

***  
Dwight, the manager, greeted you a bit too chipper for the morning as you go to clock in. You manage a half smile and a “‘morning”. 

He worries his fingers when you take his place behind the counter. 

“Sorry- not a morning person?” A genuinely concerned look takes the place of his awkward smile as he quickly adds, “I can always put you on the night shift with Quentin, if you want…”

You shake your head and assure him you’ll take whatever you can get, but thanks anyways.

You don’t see him again until your lunch break, he catches you as you grab your jacket to get a breath of fresh air. He looks like he’s trying to say something but he just swallowed water down the wrong pipe. He flounders, opening his mouth and closing it again before you take pity on him.

“What’s up?”

“I support you-”, he spits up like he’s out of breath.

As much as what he’s trying to tell you is probably supposed to be nice, your stomach drops.

“What are you talking about,” _you’ve played dumb before, just cross your fingers._

Dwight squeaks in an undignified way. He’s red in the face and looks like he might die of embarrassment, but you hold your ground with a tilt to your head and an inquisitive expression.

“I-...you’re...I mean- uh”, he panics. “I’m gay.”

You’re so tired that the shock just bounces around in your head and comes out as a laughed ‘okay’. When your brain returns, you thank him, smile, pat him on the arm, and go to take your break before his brain implodes. It would be nice to have people like you to hang out with.

***  
The back door swings open with a rusty squeak, Michael does nothing to hide the dull thud of his footsteps inside. He watched you leave. 

Michael was never cautious, but your routine never seemed to stay the same. He’s been spending more time outside than he would like, your unpredictability slowly growing aggravating.

He heads straight to the pantry in the kitchen, pulling out at least one of everything to dump on the counter. He rips open a granola bar and brings it to his mouth only to bump into latex. 

He pulls his mask off with one hand. The cold rush of air around his now bare face is uncomfortable, but a man’s gotta eat.

The light shines harsher without the shadows of the mask to protect eyes. Michael squints as he devours his small hoard and stuffs the wrappers in his pocket to throw in the garbage outside. Ghosts don’t eat and he doesn’t want you figuring out his presence just yet. 

A small tube rolls off the counter as he brushes away his crumbs. Maybe he’ll leave it, he likes to see you squirm when you find things he’s moved. Chapstick. He saw you use it briefly through the kitchen window.

Michael crouches, picking it up and uncapping it as he stands. It looks well used, correlating with the incoming chill. With his mask still off, he runs it over his own chapped lips. 

The chapstick stared back back at him, begging to be stolen, but he stood it back on the counter. His self control will win over instant gratification this time.

Michael moves on, up the stairs to the bathroom. He opens the door, mask in hand and stops. 

A grimacing confusion takes hold of him at the odd flesh toned object sitting in the sink. He steps closer before reaching in to examine it. It squishes oddly as he rotates it in his hands.

It’s obviously a penis, but recognition ends there. Michael’s seen fake ones in some victims’ bedrooms, and he knows what they were used for, but this doesn’t look like it would work very well.

He puts it back and turns on the shower instead. His fingers linger on the hair of the mask after he gets undressed before reluctantly leaving it to step under the spray.

The water rhythmically runs his mind blank. Michael opens his eyes without realising he had closed them, his wet hair obscuring his view. A hefty amount of your shampoo is dumped out of the bottle and he begins to scrub at his head. The scent curls around in the steam and he breaths it in greedily. You must smell like this, he hasn’t gotten close enough while you sleep to tell.

He’s going to change that tonight.

***  
You get home while it’s still light out and your stomach sends you straight to the pantry to grab a packet of ramen. While heating the water, you absentmindedly reapply chapstick.

Michael watches from just out of sight in the next room tonight. Adrenaline surges through him as you rub where his lips had been over your own. Using it must make them soft.

Unceremoniously, you eat out of the pot, savoring the flavor your tongue hasn’t yet worn out.

Your routine flies by under his gaze. He liked the way you yelped when caught off guard by the water temperature after running a shower. You grumbled something about the stupid old water heater and entered your room covered in goosebumps afterwards.

Michael must’ve used all the hot water. _Funny._

He watches you read in bed until your eyes begin to droop. Turning out the light, it doesn’t take long until your breaths come low and steady. 

The closet door slides open silently and Michael steps out just as quiet.

He gets as close as he dares to, that is to say, right up to the bedside. He has to squat down, the lack of bed frame has you close to the floor. His eyes pick apart the way your hair lies on the pillow, the moonlight in the room is just enough to observe the details of your face like a map.

The tension feels like a quickly rising tide he has to wade through, Michael can feel the energy radiating from the edge of his knife as he draws it out. Like an extension of his limb, the tip traces the outline of your legs underneath the blanket until it reaches your uncovered arms.

Michael’s breathing excites and echoes louder underneath the mask. Light as a papercut, he drags the sharpened edge down your exposed forearms as if he were an artist. He can feel the slight pull where it digs shallowly into your skin each time he traces down to your wrists. 

His hand stills when you shift in your sleep, his breath hitches at the impulses that your exposed throat alighted.  
The sound of clattering cans outside shatters the moment, causing Michael to stand up with irritation, investigating through one of the front windows. 

_Teenagers._

He can see the spray paint cans that spilled across the ground that the two scramble collect. His eyes follow them as they look around, deeming it safe before finishing their work.

_Lucky him. An outlet for his pent up energy presents itself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 things  
> 1\. the penis in the sink is an stp (stand to pee) packing prosthetic  
> 2\. yes Michael had a raging boner because INDIRECT KISS and slicy boi stuff hes a dumby virgin  
> 3\. michael is gonna get murdery now bc hes been stalking long enough
> 
> please comment! Even if it's just a keysmash i would love it


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really looked up how to fix a roof for this
> 
> Also Quentin says trans rights

You slowly wake up before your alarm to an itchiness along your arms. Your fingernails pull along your skin, catching along the feeling of small scabs. Your brain processes for at least five minutes before you turn over and rub your eyes open, yawning and pulling your wrists closer to your eyes.

Your brow furrows. Small scrapes litter your forearms and some of them sting as you stretch them. Thinking hard, you don’t find an explanation and the confusion kind of scares you. 

Hoping you’ll find an answer later, you relinquish the warm confines of your bed to the chilly house that waits for you. In the kitchen your repairs list glares at you while you fix breakfast. You’ll have to pick up something from the hardware store to fix the roof before it rains again.

You work the night shift with Quentin tonight, you might as well start before you run out of free time. At least all this walking will keep you in shape, because goodness knows your diet sure won’t.

Locking the door behind you and stepping off the porch, you see your neighbor, Abtin, approaching through your yard again. You like the man, but he is long winded, so you start thinking about how to tell him you were heading out.

“Hey Abtin, how you doin’?”

He waves away your question, “good, good,” he pauses to point up at your house, “look at your house.”

Not really questioning it, you turn and incredulity hits you. Then anger.

“Oh my god. Who would do something like this?”

In big, drippy, red letters, the words ‘SLAUGHTER HOUSE’ decorated both sides of your porch.

“Some hoodlums.” Abtin helpfully adds.

You sigh through a clenched jaw. 

“You know what? Halloween is next month anyway, at least I don’t have to decorate.”

Abtin laughs and slaps his knee, “you’re funny”. It takes a couple minutes to break off the conversation politely, but you get on your way in due time, making a mental note to grab that scarecrow in your backyard and bring him to the front.

The door of the Young’s Hardware opens with a jingle of a bell and you scan the aisle signs from the entrance rug before realizing you have no clue what you’re doing.

Gathering your courage, you approach the fatherly looking man behind the counter hoping he can point you in the right direction. Asking about roof repairs, he nods sagely and walks with you towards a particular aisle.

You look over the products he explained, discreetly checking the prices.

“Old house?”, he inquires as you decide on a can of roof sealant and some roll roofing.

“Yeah, a real fixer-upper, I need to make some patchwork last until I can afford a new roof.”

“I know the good handy-men around here when you need one. How old is it?”, he rings up the items and you inwardly cringe at the price.

“Not sure, but it’s been vacant since the sixties.”

He whistles in the way people do to mean “that’s rough, buddy”, before taking a look at you when he hands over the bag.

“Wait a minute, are you the one who moved into the Myers’ house?” It wasn’t a rude question, but you felt uneasy, like saying yes was a bad thing. You tell him the truth anyway.

“Talk around town says it’s cursed.”

Oh come on now, it can’t be _that_ bad that people think you’re bad luck or something.

“How come? Nothing bad has happened yet.”

“You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”, you really don’t know what he’s dancing around.

The tone shifts drastically as he leans over the counter on his forearms, looking to the side before speaking to you in a lowered voice.

“There was a murder a couple of blocks away last night. Someone gutted two kids.”

You breath out a horrified _‘oh my god’_ , not wanting to ask anymore questions. He grimly tells you to be safe as you leave and you return the gesture. You really wish you could watch the news.

You get all the way home before you realize you’re going to need a ladder. 

***  
Abtin let you borrow his ladder and you’re eternally grateful you don’t have to buy one. The downside is that it isn’t tall enough to reach the roof from the ground, so here you are climbing up a ladder propped on the roof of the porch crossing your fingers you don’t fall and break something. 

Surveying the shingles, you tentatively climb onto the roof, testing the weight of each step before getting comfortable. Wiping the sweat from your forehead, you search for the problem area. 

The roofing gets tacked down and sealed with plenty of cursing, and you wipe your filthy hands on your equally dirty jeans before precariously making your way back to the ladder.

Which isn’t where you left it. Panic rises in your chest as you look for the rungs peeking over the gutter, because ‘this can’t be happening right now’.

Getting on your knees and carefully looking over the edge, you see the ladder folded and lying flat on the porch roof next to the open window you brought it through. _Definitely_ not where you left it. But wouldn’t you have heard it if it had fallen? If it fell it wouldn't have landed perfectly and it couldn’t have gotten over _there. Are you losing your mind?_

It’s okay, Abtin is usually in his garden at this time. And if he’s not, it’s only about ten feet, right?

You move back from the edge and carefully walk towards the direction you may be able to see him.

_Clunk_

You turn around. The top of the ladder was visible again.

“Abtin?”, maybe he saw it fall and already went to help you? There’s no response.

You climb down the ladder and look for your saviour, but you’re alone. It’s safe to say you’re pretty spooked, and considering the murder nearby, you’re starting to think it’s not a ghost living with you.

You need to call Laurie.

***  
You couldn’t talk long because you were needed at work, but she told you to ‘get the hell out of that house’ and she wants to meet in a public place tomorrow.

Before leaving, you took some left over packing tape and placed small strips over the closed doors. This way you’ll know for sure if somebody was sneaking around while you’re out, the tape will be disconnected.

You walk briskly to beat the setting sun and dropping temperature, pulling your jacket around you. Quentin looks up from a book on the counter as you pass, and quietly greets you when you grab the to do list Dwight leaves at the register.

It’s a slow night, so you idly chat while you make your way through the tasks and Quentin watches the counter. After the last of the straightening, your mind wanders to the news you heard early today. 

“Hey Quentin, did you hear about what happened-”

He groans and runs a hand down his face before you could finish.

“Yeah, it’s all anybody’s been talking about today. I’ve had, like, nine old ladies ask me if they caught the guy yet.”

You grimace, “sorry, I kind of live under a rock.”

“You’re fine, I’m just tired of the gossip. Everybody’s saying Michael Myers is back and its stupid.”

“Why? I heard he was never found…”

“He was shot multiple times before he got away, so he’s totally dead by now.”

You respond with a nonchalant ‘oh’ and lean back on the counter. You won’t say it, but you feel safer after hearing that. Quentin moves back to his book, but stops and raises an eyebrow.

“What happened to your arms?”, his concern is almost tangible.

You look at them again, scrubbing all the industrial glue off irritated the scratches and they’re pretty red under the fluorescent lighting.

“I don’t know.”, you tell him the truth, even if it sounds lame. “I woke up like this this morning and they weren’t there yesterday. I think my house is haunted to be honest.”

He hums in interest and makes eye contact before continuing. 

“Is it safe to be there?”  
You’re surprised that he believes you, or at least is acting like it. You tell him about Laurie’s warnings until you realize he looks more awake than you’ve ever seen him. 

Backtracking, you tell him that you’re fine and that he shouldn’t worry about it. Scribbling on a sticky note, he presses his phone number into your hands, telling you to call him if you needed to stay somewhere for the night.

You thank him, bashfully tucking the paper into your back pocket. You’re glad to have him as a friend, but you’d have to come out to take him up on that offer so you desperately hope you won’t need it.

***  
Anxiety reared its ugly head as you got closer to home. In the dark. Unarmed, with a killer on the loose.

You shake these thoughts away and pull your keys out, ready to check your ‘booby traps’.

There was only one downstairs, over the back door. You almost don’t want to look, but you laugh at yourself when you see it intact.

With a sigh of relief you head upstairs, ready to get off your feet. Before entering your bedroom, you bend down to peel off the tape seal you made.

It’s broken.

You don’t dare to touch it. You’re sure you placed them all correctly. You spin and nearly trip over your feet to check the bathroom seal.

Broken.

You feel sick, knowing that someone has been in your house doing who knows what in your room. You turn the knob expecting to find something out of place when you open it, but you hold the door shut. The tape on the back door wasn’t broken and the front door was still locked.

_They never left._

You don’t grab anything as you bolt down the stairs, shoving just your toes into your shoes and sprinting over to Abtin and Sherrie’s front porch. You ring the doorbell twice and then knock rapidly on the door, eyes still on the house you’ve abandoned. A light flicks on in your neighbor’s house, distracting you, but when you turn back you think you can see a dark figure move in front of the windows facing towards you. You knock harder.

Abtin opens the door looking tired, you can hear him ask what’s happening, but you just repeat ‘someone’s in my house’ until he pulls you in and locks the door behind him. You’re already apologizing profusely, but he stops you to just explain what happened. You feel bad for waking an old man from his sleep, but you borrow his house phone gratefully and he makes himself a cup of tea.

You hesitate to call the police, but you need your house checked so you’re going to have to concede this time. When the emergency service operator informs you that they’re on their way, you hang up the phone to pick it up again. The crumpled piece of paper comes out of your pocket and you dial the number hoping someone would pick up.

It rings twice and you hear Quentin’s voice pick up. You feel guilty for asking, but he insists that it’s fine.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t actually mean it. What happened, are you okay?”

“actually...I’m calling from a neighbor’s phone…I think there’s someone in my house.”, you admit slowly. 

“Did you call the police?!”, his voice strained in surprise.

Almost as if summoned, you can see red and blue light growing stronger through the windows.

“They’re here already, actually-”

“What’s your address? I don’t want you walking over after this.”, he cuts you off, but you’re glad he does. You almost forgot to ask about his address, and you’re too tired to argue.

You bid goodnight to Abtin and wind up standing by the squad car in the street, holding your elbows, while the one cop searches your house. He exits after what seems like a very short amount of time, and announces in annoyance that ‘nobody’s on the premises, sir’.

Quentin pulls up as you reach peak exasperation with the officer and you tell him exactly where he can stick his badge. Your temper was short after a long day and he insinuated that you were either crazy because of the Myers house or ‘wasting taxpayer dollars with pranks’. 

You give Quentin an embarrassed wave when he walks up the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets.

“So,” he gestures towards the house with a swing of the jacket, “the myers house?”

“Yup,” you sigh.

You have to grab some things before you leave, at least knowing it’s safe now. Quentin follows you inside and you’re grateful that he doesn’t comment on the state of the place. It takes a few false starts, but you manage to broach the subject of being trans in your own way while you fetch your stuff. To his credit, he keeps it pretty casual and tells you it’s fine.

“So you’re okay with it? You still want me over at your house?” 

“It doesn’t change anything man. My parents are already asleep and they wouldn’t say anything.”

“Oh thank fuck,” you exclaim and wiggle out of your binder without taking your shirt off, “I’ve been wearing this thing for way too long today.”

***  
Quentin sneaks you through the house to his room quietly and turns on a small lamp that fills the room with a warm glow. It was a bit of an organized chaos with very little freespace on his desk and floor, but it was cozy. 

“Sorry about the mess, but we can share the bed.” He kicks some of the clothes on the floor into a more distinct pile. You mumble that it’s fine, but he’s too preoccupied in digging out pajamas for himself to hear you.

“Wait, you probably need a shower, let me show you where the bathroom is.” 

You set your stuff down and follow him, tired and awkward, but glad to get clean.

You try to be as quiet as possible, and when you leave the bathroom in your damp pajamas, you startle at a figure in the hallway. In the dim light you see someone dressed as a sheet ghost.

You laugh softly, “you’re funny, Quentin”.

“What?”, Quentin’s voice responds from the bedroom.

Your smile drops, turning to see him on his bed. When you look back, the ghost is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s up to interpretation but in my mind michael has totally jacked it in your room. Thank you everybody for your comments!! I banged my scepter on the ground and demanded a michael myers x reader self indulgence but it makes me really happy that you guys enjoy it as much as I enjoy making it come to life. I know I've been dancing around the meeting bc I'm depraved and love the tension but I promise you finally get to meet Mikey boi in the next chapter
> 
> (Young's hardware is a reference to "The Placebo Effect" by Maesonry, bc I really enjoyed that fic and couldn't help myself)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for the first 3 "paragraphs": I got a bit graphic with murder, I know it's probably redundant but I want you to be prepared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made the mistake of getting ACNH and I had to pry my gay little hands off of it to write and that's why it took so long OOPS  
> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR COMMENTS I LOVE YOU GUYS!! every comment saying you see yourself in this makes me so happy I could cry, I'd die for you but I will also continue to live and write for you

The dense weave of the hoodie slows the blade, but only makes the kill more intimate as Michael adds more pressure. He watches it slowly cut through the fibers and dig into the flesh underneath until it gives, sinking sharply into the sternum of one of the vandals. The night is late and in broad view on a suburban sidewalk, help is so close but snatched from his victim’s reach with his large hand pinching her cries in her throat. Her shrouded companion lies crumpled and bleeding in the grass of someone’s front yard. His hands were warm with the blood thickly lubricating his blade, the tang of it growing in the air.

In the climax of the kill, his adrenaline drew on the memory of his knife tantalizing your body. Standing beholden of his work and wiping the blade on the arm of his coveralls, the action had given way to his decision. His patience broke and he’s done with watching now.

There wasn’t a plan, but Michael is satisfied with running on instinct.

***  
You didn’t tell Quentin what you saw. It went against your better judgement, but it would make you sound crazy. “There’s someone in your house now. Dressed in a sheet.” 

You couldn’t sleep with it on your mind, but neither could Quentin so the two of you traded sleepover talk until you passed out. At one point you were tired enough to share how you ended up here after being cut off from everything you once knew. You must have fallen asleep during his story, you only recall him telling you that he came out here to escape something.

Using his phonebook and house phone, you were able to schedule a locksmith to change your locks urgently. Before that appointment, however, you needed to meet Laurie at the coffee shop she chose as the ‘crowded public place’. 

Quentin offers to drive you, but you insist that he’s done enough for you and that it isn’t too far if you head out early. You almost regret it, running on so little sleep, until you remember Quentin would be driving on even less. 

Looking around awkwardly, trying not to obstruct the counter in front of the entrance, you see Laurie stand from one of the central tables and wave you over to one farther in the back by the restrooms. 

She gets down to business quickly, asking for all the details quickly after greeting you. You mention the little things before adding up to what happened last night. The relief you feel when you see that she believes you is emboldening, so you tell her about the tape you set up and even the sheet ghost.

“He isn’t dead.”

“Wh-who?”, You fiddle nervously. 

Her steely gaze steals your breath as she talks in a voice laced with anger.

“Michael Myers.” Laurie drops a pile of papers onto the table and starts to slide each of them individually in front of you. “Two years ago on Halloween, he murdered my friends and tried to kill me.” A tear runs down her cheek and she wipes it away with vitriol before composing herself and gesturing to the papers.

Newspaper clippings.

A headline over a black and white print of a mask. The papers are littered with annotations in red marker. You look closer and read the important pieces. Sightings, disappearances, homicides…

“All in the last two years. There’s no killing the boogeyman. And there’s no stopping him if he wants you dead.” Her eyes hold a determination that makes you squirm. 

She’s succeeded in making you scared at least. 

“Well what do I do?”, your voice escalates a little in panic.

She looks at you with pity. 

“Get a gun.” she says solemnly.

You promise to keep in touch and leave feeling the weight of a target on your back.

***  
Michael treated the occasion as any other day, except perhaps indulging in a more noticeable amount of food than normal, until he heard your keys in the door.

You came back from work much later tonight. _Perfect._

Your footsteps trailed lazily up the stairs and Michael positioned himself where the door would swing into the wall. The knob turned and he waited.

It snapped back into place, ruining his anticipation. He listened carefully for your next move. Quiet steps to the bathroom. Pause. You were running.

He yanked open your bedroom door but you were already outside. 

He was careful enough. _How did you know?_

Maybe you were smarter than he gave you credit for. Minimally impressed, Michael went downstairs to observe through the living room window. You were in the neighbor’s yard, but you had to return eventually. You had nowhere else to run.

He distantly remembers two halloweens ago, the opposite, the neighbors had shut the porch lights on Laurie.

You looked back to where he stood and Michael didn’t bother to hide.

Time passes sluggishly as he watches for your exit. Before it comes, the sound of sirens growing closer aches in his ears. He should have expected you to call the police, but a storm cloud rumbles inside him anyway. Michael stays in place until you pass out of his view crossing the yard, then leaves knowing there is nothing to find.

The pasty cop trespasses the threshold with his flashlight and gun in front of him. Michael can see you in full view under the streetlights, watching your insecurity like a voyeur.

You shuffle uncomfortably in your work clothes, listening carefully from the curb until the sweep of the house is done. Standing just off the porch, the officer writes on his notepad with an uninterested posture. The specifics of the conversation don’t reach until your voice raises at the tone of accusations toward you. 

This new vibrancy of expression draws Michael forward before a second car pulls to the curb. He can see your anger fester as you sling an indignant remark at the back of the retreating pig, earning a quick exhale of amusement.

You pushed the cops away, but you also brought them here. The multitudes you contain confuse him. He wasn’t interested in killing you just yet, but you won’t get away with this that easily.

If you hadn’t had Michael’s attention before, you definitely had it now. You leave in the other car, to his surprise, but he can keep playing cat and mouse.

***  
He was satisfied to toy with you last night. Michael smiles minisculely at the thoughts as he woke. Sleeping in a car gave him a crick in the neck, but he massages it away and climbs into the front seat.

He’s stolen a car before and it’s not hard.

Timing must be on his side, because you exit the house before his eyes, the sunlight streaming onto you and the autumn leaves like a picture. Michael peels off his mask, his hand landing on the stick shift ready to follow suit. His eyes leave you long enough to meet a pair of aviators sitting on the dash and he dons them before bringing the car to life.

***  
The car engine dies as you enter the shop, the windows casting a glare, but not enough to shield the clueless people within. A wave of blonde catches his attention and he sees a familiar face wave you over. He feels nothing.

Then you will be prepared. So will he.  
***  
When you get home, the branded car of the locksmith is already waiting out front. You apologize for keeping him waiting and you unlock the front door, silently feeling safer to not enter on your own. 

The handyman gets to work quickly and you make yourself busy by scrounging together his payment. You’re more than happy to loiter nearby as the locks are changed.

You’re happy you can cross this repair off your list, but the feeling of being exposed when you’re alone again doesn’t leave. You ignore it to change out of your not quite “walk of shame” clothes.

Peeling off your shirt as you walk up the stairs, you’re temporarily blind and stumble on the last step. You toss it onto the floor of your room ahead of you and make for the rest of your clothes until a force from nowhere throws you back onto one of the walls, knocking the breath out of you.

You grunt at the shock and Michael pounces. 

Your eyes shoot open wildly and you manage a small gasp before a large hand cuts you off around your throat. The intruder towers over you and gets close, casting a shadow upon his prey before you feel yourself rise and your toes no longer reach the floor.

The white mask from the photographs stares into you, eyes indiscernible in the darkness underneath. You kick out at him, desperate to break his grip. Your arms aren’t long enough to reach his face and beating at his arms and hand prove futile. 

Michael watches as your face shifts from surprise to anger and then to fear as you realize how very mortal you are. Your warm pulse races ever faster underneath his fingers. 

He could very easily kill you, and the urge itches pleasantly in his hands. But then the fun would end. He tries to squash the small desire that’s been slowly infecting him like a virus. You should be nothing to him, he wants you to be nothing, it’s normal for him to feel nothing. 

His hands flex and you hiss underneath him. Your fighting hands slip off him and you dangle helplessly on the edge of consciousness. Your eyes don’t focus on him, but some point elsewhere, in a resolute way.

Your body hits the ground as Michael’s head screams at his hands for releasing you. He steps back from you, watching stiffly as you sputter back to life on the floor.

You don’t even register what’s happening, heaving and rubbing your throat when he leaves. When your clarity returns, you scramble on your knees to slam the bedroom door behind him and lock it.

He could be a snitch. Michael gives in to the feeling you won’t be calling the police after yesterday. Frustration consumes him and he grits his teeth at you wresting his control from him.

Tears are running down your face and you don’t feel them until you wipe them away. You’re alive. Why didn’t he kill you? Laurie said there was no stopping him if he wanted someone dead. Michael Myers killed without remorse. 

Your head swims when you lift yourself off the floor. Right now you need to find a way out. You really wish you didn’t leave your bat by the back door. You have no phone, no weapons, and you’re on the second floor. Even if he didn’t catch you after jumping out a window you _definitely_ can’t afford a trip to the hospital right now. The only way out is through.

Looking around your room, you find nothing that would make for good defense, but you’ll have to make do. You pull your shirt back on and unplug your cheap reading lamp from the wall to hold it by the base. 

Every noise the door makes while unlocking and opening makes you flinch. Your bare feet pad across the floor silently to the stairs, stepping carefully to avoid the creaky parts of the boarding. 

Every step is full of adrenaline as you hold your life and a lamp in your hands. You peer over the railing as far as you can into each room along the central hallway as you descend. You’re three steps from the bottom and crane your neck to peek around the corner of the archway next to the stairs. 

You see blue coveralls and black boots and twist to run silently back up the stairs.

Michael takes two large steps to the stairs and grabs your leg with his left hand as you run, watching you fall hard on your ribs and the lamp goes clattering down around you.

You feel your ankle released and scramble up the stairs on all fours, turning around at the top to see your tormentor standing at the bottom looking up at you as if it were a game.

The two of you are at a standoff, you breathing heavily over the softer sounds of his breaths behind the mask. 

You hear your own voice croak in an unfamiliar way. Your throat throbs painfully.

“Why didn’t you kill me?”, you don’t know why you ask.

His head tilts at you curiously, stealing your breath.

Michael doesn’t know the answer either, he does know this is the first time you’ve spoken to him and the words resonate in his skull.

“Have...have you been living here?”, you rasp quieter this time.

His arm flexes, and you see the shine of a knife changing position in his right hand. Your pulse races and you look back into the eye-holes of the mask. This time you can see further.

The sun is setting and painting an ethereal and gold waning light from behind his fit form. One eye deep blue and another pale against the sclera lock with yours. 

You lose yourself looking harder, until you blink and he’s moved away, walking heavily down the hall into the house. You stay put, listening. 

The back door squeaks open and shut, and you’re alone with your adrenaline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone on tumblr said something about Michael with aviators on and driving a convertible with the wind in his beautiful hair. Eyes emoji.  
> Also, if you guys have anything you want to see feel free to comment or let me know on zipperdraws-andfics on tumblr. I bang my scepter on the ground and demand a michael pegging indulgence


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for taking forever again, I'm considered an essential worker so you know how what that means ://  
> I know I said I'd try to do better at updating faster last time but this time I mean it X2. My brain was holding me at gunpoint and the gun shoots executive dysfunction ajshfaskhg

Everything aches right now.

Considering the circumstances, you could be a lot worse or dead, but that doesn’t make you thankful. You take one step down the stairs and nearly trip, having to blink away a dizzy spell. You need some ice for multiple parts of your body.

You keep a small first-aid kit in the upstairs bathroom, but you don’t think it’ll help the contusions. Your ribs and ankle you can ignore if you lie down, but the red and purple ring around your throat glares at you in the mirror and throbs when you swallow.

You hold an ice pack to your head and breath. You’re exhausted.

The backdoor he left through is unlocked. You stare until you can gather the strength to get up and turn the lock. The practiced motion and click of the tumbler shifts the question to the forefront of your mind.

_How long had he been in here with me?_

There was evidence of a squatter when you first moved in and you really hope it hasn’t been that long. An odd mixture of horror and embarrassment festers when you think about all the things he could have seen when you thought you were alone.

You really wish you had curtains you could close right now. The darkness has fallen and you need to move on for now, but you grab your bat and keep it close.

***  
You wake the next morning, surprised to still be breathing. 

With careful probing, the dark corners of the house prove themselves to be empty and you cringe at the inevitability of having to be productive today.

The sunlight streaming through the windows makes you feel guilty for not wanting to leave the house. You’re probably no safer out there than in here even after changing the locks, but at least there are less directions to be attacked from.

Thinking of attacking, that ugly wallpaper is really asking for it. You decide to work on that after putting some food in your stomach.

Easier said than done. Whoever built this shitty house decided to cut corners on priming the walls before gluing the wallpaper down, and now you have the joy of pulling it off in shredded strips like a cheap sticker. After a couple sweaty hours, you almost wished you just left it up because you don’t even know how to cover up the mess with paint.

Frustration gets the best of you so you throw the scraps in a garbage bag and head for the shower. The first aid kit sits out on the counter where you left it, sparking a reminder that you haven’t done your testosterone injection since the move. You cringe and make a mental note to schedule an appointment with a local endocrinology lab before anything happens.

You nearly forget while washing up, prompting you to search the house for a pen while still in a towel. You have to find the number to a place first, though, glancing at the cheap plastic telephone with its tangled cord on the kitchen counter. You bought it because you didn’t want to use a payphone to call Laurie.

 _Oh shit._ Laurie would definitely want to hear about what happened last night. Anxiety wells within you. What would be the purpose of calling her? She couldn’t really do anything to help and she would probably freak out. You consider that she might not believe that you met him and lived, but the bruises on your neck would be proof enough.

Your hand rests on the phone. She has a right to know.

Your hand is slow to punch the numbers on the faded scrap of paper and you hold your breath as it rings.

The phone clicks. “Hello?”

“Hi Laurie, it’s (y/n).” you let your breath out, unsure how you should act in this situation.

“Oh, how are you doing?”, you can hear a little bit of concern through the pleasantry.

“Actually, something’s happened…”, you choke on your words. You didn’t think about how to phrase it and the words feel weird in your mouth. “He was here.”, you exhale the words like a strained whisper. 

There’s a pause and there’s a sound like something falling over the phone. 

“Michael was there? You saw him?”, her voice demanded. You almost flinch at the name, you didn’t want to say it, like it would manifest.

“Yes,” you answer in a normal voice that seems too loud this time. “He-” your voice breaks unexpectedly and you stop.

You can hear Laurie asking if you’re okay and about what happened while you try to piece together a description that fit.

“He was in my room. I didn’t see him...and he...started choking me.” _He was so strong, fighting was useless._ Your stomach turns a little bit when you think about how you almost died. _And how that shouldn’t sound so hot._

Laurie was silent on the other end, probably waiting for you to finish.

“I think he dropped me. The next thing I knew I was on the floor and he left the room”,

“That’s impossible, he would’ve finished the job…” Laurie mumbles through the phone. You were wondering the same thing yourself.

You recount how you tried to escape the house, how he was waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs, how he pulled you down on the steps. And how he just left.

You feel drained at the end of it and you doubt that she has an answer for you.

“You need to call the police, he can’t have gone far!”, she sounds angry now.

You huff a defeated laugh. “The cops aren’t gonna help me, they said I was wasting their time and I told them to go fuck themselves...it happened last night anyway, it’s too late now.”

You wince and pull the phone away from your ear at Laurie’s ensuing exclamation.

“-and you didn’t think to call me immediately?!”

You don’t offer an excuse other than the thought _‘I mean I was stupid enough to buy the house anyway.’_  
***  
You triple checked the locks and windows, locked your bedroom door, and slept soundly enough with your bat.

Work wasn’t until noon, but you woke up early to see what you could do about the bruises on your neck. The finger prints turned a mottled purple and yellow over the fading red speckling of broken blood vessels. It’ll probably freak people out, but you don’t have any concealer and it’s too hot for a scarf, so you resign yourself to getting awkward questions.

Halfway out the door, you freeze, thinking about the walk home in the dark. You can’t call off, standing at an impasse before a lightbulb goes off in your head, darting back inside to grab your bat.

It would be a bit odd to carry a small bat with you to a grocery store, so you opt to wrap it in one of your jackets to conceal it. Now you feel ready.

***  
Work went about as well as you expected. Nearly every customer asked the dreaded question, and you considered giving a different story each time just for the fun of it. One of the regular old gossips heard that a car was stolen on the radio and asked if it was the same person. You told her you doubt it.

You saw Dwight and Quentin today, and their concern made you feel bad for worrying them, though you don’t know why. You just told them you were mugged and didn’t want to talk about it.

You waved goodbye to Quentin at eight and slipped your bat out of its shroud when you hit the sidewalk. The glow of the streetlights thinned as you walked, but you kept the bat close to your chest anyway. You don’t want the cops to question you after getting on your bad side.

Halfway home, you hear footsteps behind you. You try to look out of the corner of your eye, paranoid. The figure is much smaller than Michael, you sigh in relief. It was too loud to be him anyway.

The back of your shirt is yanked back, giving your shoulders a rug burn as it pulls against your neck harshly.

The point of a pocket knife is thrust into your view over your left shoulder. _‘Am I getting mugged? What an awful coincidence-’_ passes through your brain before a harsh voice accompanied by bad breath and the stench of cigarette invades your space.

“Empty your pockets.”

You’re free hand goes up in response to the knife and the man rifles through your jacket and pants pockets, finding only your house key and throwing it on the ground before shoving you.

“No wallet, huh? What’re you carrying, then? I’ll take that.”

Your brain is on autopilot, slowly turning your body with your left hand up in surrender.

“I’m carrying...this” you move like your gesturing it out to him from under your jacket, and when he leans in you swing it like a backhand across his face before turning and running.

Briefly, you hear “you mother fucker!” behind you before he pursues and you start to panic. You didn’t think this through very far.

You make it to the corner of the street and cut through a yard as you turn, running home but with no key. A body connects with yours and you hit the grass on your stomach, knocking the wind out of you. You wheeze with the weight on your back and feel your attacker grab your hair and try to slam your head into the ground.

Kicking your legs into him does nothing, until you feel him suddenly lift off of you and hit the ground. Rolling over, you see a large dark figure loom over the thug on the ground. His angry jeers get cut off by a heavy boot stomped on his chest. You hear ribs crack and then a strangled yelp before a dark spray of blood hits the navy jumpsuit.

Scrambling backwards until you can stand, your wide eyes stare into the white face of the mask that turns to you. He closes the gap and holds a clenched fist toward you.

It’s a staring contest you lose, looking down at his hand, the one that almost ended your life. You hold out your hand.

Into it drops your bloody house key.

***  
You get home severely shaken by tonight’s events. After giving you the key, he wiped the blood off his knife on that arm’s sleeve. He lets you leave, but makes it obvious that he’s watching.

You have to wipe the blood off your key when you go to use it. You hope it doesn’t stain this jacket. The house is dark and silent, almost oppressively so. You go to head to the comfort of your room, before begrudgingly walking back down the stairs to check the lock on the back door.

It’s still locked. You peer out the back window.

Almost completely obscured by the dark, a white mask stands vigilant at the fence. 

You’re both tired, and filled with butterflies. You open the back porch door and stare back for a long moment. Then you wordlessly go up to bed, letting the door close behind you and making a show not to lock it.

You still lock your bedroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think of the door at the end being like the scene when Chihiro lets no-face in in spirited away lol. I didn't think I had it in me to write a slow burn but look at me now, Michael don't know whats comin for him
> 
> Every one of your comments fills me with passion and motivation, thank you!!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cant believe I'm still alive but I refuse to die until I finish this fic and that is a threat
> 
> im sorry this chapter is shorter than usual, idk why I was having such a hard time writing recently but Im gonna fix it somehow

The tension between you two was softened by the spent adrenaline, blanketing it with exhaustion. Michael could see you breathing as you stood there in the open under the porchlight, your expression unreadable.

You shivered when he dropped the key in your hands, but you didn’t run. Seeing the blood cooling viscous on your hands from his calmed the flames stoked by the strange hands that had touched his prey. Michael thought he could hear you choke on a ‘thank you’.

The door swings shut in silence now, no longer in desperate need of oil. He doesn’t hear you turn the lock. 

You’ve disappeared from his line of sight, triggering purposeful steps across the lawn. A hand lands on the doorknob, testing it slowly and finding no resistance. This must be his reward.

Michael’s curiosity entertained, he could let the hunt simmer for now. He’s already very well acquainted with the house you shared, taking no time in making himself at home in the cabinet where you keep the junk food.

Water drips onto the inside of his mask when he folds it down after drinking from the sink. It almost feels as if no time has passed since before he came out.

The air feels charged with energy as he makes towards your bedroom. 

It could be like before.

The knob rattles harshly under his force, a tinge of disappointment bittering his tongue.

Or not.

Michael’s jaw clenches as he stands there, until his body leads him away to one of the unoccupied rooms to use for the night.

***  
The light in the room was the kind of grey that comes from the sun not having risen enough for its yellow to reach you, but having already chased the dark back over the horizon. In the first moment’s of wakefulness, you don’t know why you’ve opened your eyes until the thunking of boots on the wooden flooring shoot more energy into your body than a double espresso.

Fully awake, you freeze clutching your pillow as your doorknob jiggles. You hold your breath to listen until you can hear the footsteps leave. The fact that the man in your house is probably shuffling louder than usual for your sake disturbs you.

Time passes you in your bed and answers on how to approach the killer you let into your house escape you. 

Fortifying, you nearly unlock the door before turning yourself around and getting dressed.

The weight of your bat comforts your palm, but it still takes too long for you to carefully open the door. You walk through the upper floor hoping to be quiet, head turning like a prey animal as you check each corner before resigning to the stairs.

Lingering one step at a time, you feel like when you had to approach your parents after your bedtime as a kid. Clinking reaches your ears, and you take gentle steps into the kitchen doorway. 

His back is to you, fittingly, inspecting the knife block. It looks like he left dishes in the sink next to your own from the day before. He pulls out the knife sharpening rod.

“Hello?”, you try to not be too loud. He doesn’t stop when you pipe up, but you can tell he hears you.

When you talk it feels one sided and expressing gratitude feels off. 

“I guess it’s kinda obvious I’m not going to call the cops on you, but what do you want from me?”

He hasn’t even turned to face you and it’s giving you cold feet. Against better judgement, you blurt out something to get a reaction.

“Michael Myers”

He stops rotating the sharpener in his hands.

“That’s your name right?”, you try not to let nerves drip from your words. As much as you should be afraid in this situation, you also want to know more. “I know you’ve hurt people.”

Still no reaction.

“Like my friend, Laurie.” he stiffens. “She told me-”

Michael suddenly turns to you and your words die in your throat.

“Why…” Your voice cracks and you swallow, “why haven’t you killed me?”

The eyes partially visible in the shadows of the mask pierce into you. 

“What makes me so different?”, without an answer, you continue to demand one. “Is it the house? Is it because you want to stay here?”

Remembering the marks he left, your free hand snakes up to your throat subconsciously to worry at them.

That pulls a reaction from him, advancing on you in a flash. 

Everything happens quickly as you back peddle and raise your bat to put distance between your bodies. Effortlessly, he catches the front of it and wrenches it from your grasp in a motion that yanks you forward into his personal space.

You’re dwarfed by his form, but he doesn’t touch you and it feels like it’s both killing you and what’s keeping you from being killed.

His gaze is boring into you, but yours travels slower from his chest. Dried blood flakes from the blue jumpsuit where it’s opened to reveal a tighter black shirt underneath.  
You don’t want to meet the scrutiny of his eyes. It grows into an awkward silence for you, but you’re sure that he has no qualms in staying this way. 

“I, um...have work tonight.” You can hear him breathing and you cringe at yourself for sounding like one night stand in a movie. “I could bring your, uh, jumpsuit...to the laundromat on the way.”

You don’t expect a response and you don’t receive one. 

Looking up into his eyes leaning over you, he tilts his head. If he wasn’t so intimidating, it would almost be cute. You don’t want to be quick to accept this new arrangement and you definitely don’t feel comfortable or safe yet, but you’re going to have to find an alternative communication method.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> michael has HELLA tiddies


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl i am a slut for jake x dwight tho. And jake is really hot.

When you finally walk away, he lets you. You don’t go far, just having come down so you can’t go hide again. You think on if doing the dishes in front of him would seem passive aggressive, and then you think on how a normal person doesn’t think like that. You decide against it, because neither of you are normal people.

You choke down oatmeal for breakfast. It was the dinosaur kind, because you like to enjoy the little things, but you had to use water because you saw that you ran out of milk after breaking open the package. Staring into the shaped sugar, you try to work out how to feed two people on your shitty wage. 

Scrubbing your bowl with a sponge, you look at the extra set of dishes, also marked with the tell tale dye streaks of the melted oatmeal dinosaurs. A small smile sneaks onto your face and you snort.

***  
You don’t see him again before you leave for work, which is disappointing. More because you don’t want him tracking blood in your house and leading the police to your door.

Walking briskly, you eventually meet the street where it all went down. You nearly freeze when you see the police car, but do your best to act natural. A million possibilities run through your head and twist your stomach. 

You were innocent, right? No, you didn’t call the cops. That makes you an accomplice. 

_‘Sure, not calling is your indictment. Not that you’re housing a wanted murderer.’_

The police tape draws your eye and you look at the roped off area in a way you hope reads as ‘curious’. You resist the urge to look into the window of the car to see if you were watched. The words from cheesy detective shows intrude when you don’t want them.

_‘The suspect always returns to the scene of the crime’_

You close your eyes and take a deep breath to reset. 

_‘No. You were a victim.’_

The safety of the storefront becomes visible and you want to jog to it. Thinking about work, you should ask one of your coworkers if they could tell you where the nearest library is.

***  
The sun is barely setting, but the customers have dwindled as per the usual sunday night. The chimes on the doors ring your attention and you greet the man to walk through in the chipper way that corporate demands.  
He looks your way and appears to struggle for a moment before offering a nod and diving to the back of the store. Not unusual, but he did catch your eye. He’s dressed like a woodsman and has a nice face to look at. You momentarily lament your chances of meeting someone in a small town like this.

When the man returns and sets his items on the counter, Dwight darts out of the manager's office and around the counter.

“Jake!”, Dwight sounds more enthusiastic than you’ve ever seen him and proceeds to casually hang off the man’s arm.

Jake stiffens and doesn’t meet your eyes, earning a confused look from Dwight until a light bulb goes off.

“Oh! Jake this is- I’m sorry I forgot, um, this is (Y/n). Nobody else is in the store, I think, I didn’t mean to-”

Jake cuts him off with a chuckle and a peck on the cheek, before extending his hand to you. Dwight, shellshocked for a moment, opens and closes his mouth before making introductions.

“(Y/n), this is Jake, my, uh…” He bites his lip in a nervous smile. “partner.” He finishes.

“Boyfriend.” Jake says solidly when you shake his hand.

The three of you banter as you check out his items.

“So are you going camping?”, you ask after bagging ingredients for s'mores.

“No, I live in the woods, but I don’t know how to make marshmallows.”, he answers so monotonously you can’t help but laugh.

“It’s true,” Dwight adds “he was half feral when we met, I think.”

After he’s finished paying, you and Dwight start to close up shop while he waits.

“Oh, (Y/n), by the way, I’m taking a small vacation soon so you might not see me for a bit.” Dwight calls to you from behind the register he’s closing. “But we’re having a small cookout next saturday, you should come!”  
“Yeah, you should come hang out.” Jake looks up from the newspaper rack he’s leaning by. 

It surprises you and it probably shows on your face. “Sure, that sounds rad, I’ll have to see if I’m off then.”

Dwight turns around, saying he’ll put in the schedule for you to be free on September 14th. You’re at a loss for words, but manage not to stumble on a thanks when Jake scribbles the time and address on the bottom of his receipt and rips it off for you.

You’re beaming as you finish closing and say your goodbyes to your new friends, and you try to hang onto the euphoria for as long as possible.

You have yet to feel safe walking home, but you try your best to ignore the feeling of exposure.

The keys jingle in the doorway and you kick off your shoes before slapping your forehead.

You forgot the milk.

You groan your way into the kitchen to slap some food together and find a pile of jumpsuit on the counter. You grimace at it dirtying the previously decently clean kitchen. You don’t want to ask where he got clothes to change into, but you certainly hope he did change into _something_.

Ignoring it until you’re done eating, you grab it between two fingers and stuff it to the bottom of your laundry basket. 

***  
Four more bland days of work pass and you’ve only seen Michael a few times, looking cleaner now, at least until yesterday. You’ve been leaving the back door open now. It’s not like anyone more dangerous than him is going to break in, and if they did, you don’t have much to steal.

You’ve been thinking that if he was going to stay rent free, you might at least put him to work on the house.

Things have been moving like when you thought there was a poltergeist. Frustrating, but if it keeps him out of your hair, you can ignore it. You tend to give the room he’s claimed a wide berth, but recently you’ve been having to go in to find your shit. There’s a growing pile of blankets and some other scattered things that look like trash, but yesterday you found one of your missing shirts you thought the laundromat ate in there.

You’re not stupid. You can put two and two together and figure out a reason why he hasn’t killed you. It’s put you on edge, wondering when his obsession will end and he’ll get rid of you. Or do something worse because it doesn’t

Is it a bit self-absorbed to think that a serial killer is infatuated with you?

‘I could be reading the signs wrong…’ but then again, you doubt he spared your life because he wants to be friends.

You guess you’ll find out soon enough what he wants.

The library is warmly lit and comforting when you enter, the smell of books putting the tension in your body at ease.

The librarian, Marie, you learn, eagerly welcomes a newcomer and helps you sign up for a library card before pointing you in the right direction for a book on american sign language. You can definitely see yourself spending more time here.

It’s been so long since you went anywhere else besides work and home, you relish the atmosphere and leisurely peruse the titles after finding what you came for. You write down a few titles you want to check out on a later date after finishing the books you already own.

You got two sign language books, you doubt he’ll want to share. You also select a small anthology of ghost stories, thinking of the cookout, and, in a small burst of genius, a local road map.

At home, you leave the book on sign language conspicuously where Michael left his dirty laundry. Contemplating his reaction, you hastily make a note to leave on the cover.

“Thought you might want to express yourself better. Please don’t get blood on this, it’s a rental”

With hesitation, you sign your name on the bottom. Does he even know your name? You go to put the pen and paper away and pause, groaning as it hits you that you could have just left this out for him to write on. If he would even use either, you don’t know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, not a lot of Michael in this chapter, but I wanted to get something out tonight so I didn't go too long without an update. Another one be comin soon. I was possessed by the spirit of Michael while writing this bc yesterday I eliminated ALL CROISSANTS at 1 am 
> 
> tell me what makes you laugh bc I know i sure do while writing this


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Laurie at the cookout: pointing spiderman meme

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made it to 50 pages in google docs so clearly there is something wrong with me

The microwave clock says five-fifty am when Michael creeps into the house. He shakes the dew out of the mask’s hair and reaches for the kitchen towel to wipe off the latex. 

The book is new. He saunters to it slowly, leaving it untouched other than plucking the note from the cover. Your request in writing is met with indifference, barely read, but his thumb rubs over the inking of your name at the bottom.

He’d seen it amongst your things, but this trinket he can keep. He pockets the paper, crumpling it in his grip, and picks up the book. _Beginner’s Guide to American Sign Language._

Michael snarls under the mask. Past anger wells in his chest at the words, fighting to vent through his fingers. They tried to make him use sign language in Smith’s Grove. He never wanted to learn to communicate better, even if out of spite, it was what he could control. The only sign that really stuck was the middle finger. 

Michael climbs the stairs with a harsh grip on the spine, sparing a glare towards your bedroom door and throwing the book into his room before him. 

***  
You wake up with purpose this morning and only spend half the amount of time as usual sitting in your bed before getting up. 

Fussing with the bedhead in the mirror, you brush your teeth when a thought hits you. You haven’t seen your new roommate brush _his_ teeth. 

_Ew_.

You sigh. You’re going to have to get him a toothbrush and some deodorant, you can’t imagine being on the lam has left him smelling decent. You gag. He better not have touched your toothbrush.

The book is gone from the counter, which you count as a win. There’s no response to your note, but you’ll take what you can get. You just need to remember to study your book too, when you get back.

Thinking about the cookout, you stop short. 

_‘Was I supposed to bring a dish?’_

You groan, hopefully they won’t judge you for bringing some chips and dip.

You get dressed what would be considered way too early, but you need to get gas anyway, and luckily you did because, as you leave your house, you see Abtin approach from his yard.

He gifts you a tomato from his garden, to your surprise, and begins to tell you how his plants are doing. He tells you he’s gonna cook the rabbit that keeps eating his cabbage if he catches it, in the way he jokes for shock value.

“So, hey, is that your brother I keep seeing behind your house? He keeps coming and going-”

You choke on your own spit.

“I’m just messing with you, I know what it is.” He laughs and slaps his knee. You don’t know what you would say if you could say something. What excuse could you give? You hope he doesn’t mean what you think he does, but you’re the only person he gossips to anyway.

You’re relieved when he moves on to critique the spray paint still out front, but at least Halloween is next month and then you’ll probably be able to paint the house. 

In another ten minutes, you pocket your tomato and make it to your car to drive for the first time in probably two months. Hopefully you’ll have enough gas to make it to a station.

***  
You’re lucky you filled the tank before leaving because you got lost _twice_ trying to find the turn off indicated on the map. Finally, on another turn back, you see a faded red flannel tied around a tree, and upon closer inspection, an old dirt road hidden at an odd angle. 

When the trees part into a wider clearing down the road, you slow to a stop in the drive of what appears to be a tricked out log cabin. Putting your car in park, you jump at a loud whack nearby, someone splitting logs in your peripheral.

Jake is wearing what looks like a cowboy hat, but you’re more enamored with the way his arms look in his sleeveless vest when he swings the axe. You close your mouth and remind yourself he’s spoken for. Stepping out of the car and grabbing the food you brought, he waves to you, then points to the cabin. Right on time you see Dwight and someone you don’t know lifting a wooden picnic bench, and you jog over to help because Dwight looks like he’s about to get squashed.

At its destination, the other man introduces himself as David and slaps hands with you, throwing his arm around Dwight. It’s almost surprising, the two of them look like a stereotypical high school nerd and bully, but David tussles his hair like an older brother. 

After letting go, he pulls you over to where some logs are felled around a firepit to “grab a beer and meet the queers”. You laugh at the overtness of it, and again as a girl with red hair chucks a bag of marshmallows at his head when she hears him say it. Maybe finding someone like you isn’t a lost cause here.

“Hey!”, when David opens the cooler, you look up to see Laurie standing there pointing at you. “What are you doing here?” 

“I could ask you the same thing,” you smile, glad to see a familiar face. 

“I came with Meg and Claudette,” Laurie gestures at the two other women who nod to you. 

“I’m Meg and this is Claudette, to be clear,” the girl with red hair clarifies and nods her head across from her, “and over there is Ace- _and so help me, Ace, if you shoot that at me I will roast you over the fire_.”

You turn towards who she’s speaking to and see an older man sitting in a blue, plastic kiddie pool struggling to fill a small water pistol while laughing.

“Here you go, mate.” David grabs your attention trying to hand you a beer.

“Oh, no thanks, I gotta drive home tonight-” you put your hand up, but he presses it into your palm.

“Come on, relax, just one won’t hurt. And if you get hammered, you can just camp out here like everyone else.”

It’s in your hand now and you nod at him, but you don’t want to reveal that you think beer tastes like shit.

Dwight returns with Jake and firewood in tow, Ace squirts the water gun at them ‘to cool Jake down’ and you duck out of the way as they drop the tinder into the pit. 

“Hey, glad you came,” Jake says, dusting splinters from his hands. 

“He brought chips!” You both hear David yell over from the table, presumably with his mouthful.

“Yeah, sorry I didn’t bring something better-” you start to apologize but he tells you not to worry about it, chips are great and you brought enough so that David can’t eat them all. David yells back that he takes that as a challenge.

You can’t remember the last time you’ve laughed this much.

It’s a warm enough afternoon that you don’t need to light the bonfire yet, and David gets the grill going while Jake runs back to his cabin to grab the meat. At this point you remember the tomato in your pocket, pulling it out and setting it on the table sheepishly.

“Nice tomato! I always bring a vegetarian option for everybody too, Jake keeps them separate on the grill for me.” Claudette smiles at you from across the table as she sets down some plates.

“Thanks, my neighbor actually gave it to me from his garden this morning before I left.”

The two of you talk, and you learn that planting marigolds with tomatoes is a great way to prevent pests and Claudette knows a whole lot about gardening because she happens to be a botanist.

Meg sits down next to her and listens happily for a couple of minutes before calling Ace over to challenge him to an arm wrestle.

“Don’t let him near the grill, everything he touches burns…” Meg whispers out of the side of her mouth as he walks over. You catch Laurie’s eye from where she’s standing with Dwight, Jake, and David at the grill, exiting the conversation before swiftly making her way over to you.

“I’m gonna show (Y/n) where the bathroom is.”, her hand lands on your shoulder, you guess you have no choice.

You swing your legs around the bench and follow her off towards the cabin with a shrug. When you’re a few paces away from the group, she hisses to you under her breath without looking and you almost miss it.

_“Have you seen him again?”_

It takes a second before you register what she’s talking about, but you respond before you come to a full conclusion on what you tell her.

“No, not since the first time.” She opens the front door of the cabin and you avoid eye contact. You hope your body language reads ‘upset’ and not ‘hiding something’. “I don’t want to talk about it right now…”

Laurie lets it drop, but sounds irritated when she points out the bathroom. On the way back you whisper a ‘sorry’ and she responds with a ‘me too’. You scrunch your brows in confusion, but head over to the grill. She disappears from your side but a thirty seconds later a stream of water hits you in the side of the head.

You yelp in shock and duck, but Laurie keeps squirting the gun, catching Dwight in the crossfire. 

“It’s on!” David yells, dropping the tongs on the grill and vaulting over the table after her. Laurie runs to the other side of the kiddie pool that you see Ace getting out of, holding a beer aloft. 

There’s a stand off on either side of the water, broken by David launching over it and landing one foot in the drink to lunge at Laurie, only for her to jump out of his reach. Almost in slow motion, everyone watches as his one foot slips on the plastic and he goes tumbling down, soaking his pants and getting a face full of grass. Everybody has a good laugh while he climbs out with a flurry of curses and peels off his shirt.

_Damn._

Jake calls over as he sets one huge plate of hot dogs and burgers on the table and follows it with one of corncobs and what’s probably the veggie patties that Claudette mentioned. Meg whistles at the sight of the food and starts serving hot dogs after passing the vegetarian plate to Claudette, everyone falling in at the table to eat.

***  
You eat until you’re stuffed, unashamed as everyone else does the same. The sun is sinking in the sky now, casting a pleasant glow through the trees. Jake deems it enough to start the fire and you approach to watch curiously as he strikes flint onto the dry brush and blows on it.

When he’s finished he tells the group to keep an eye on it while he fetches the s’mores stuff.

“I thought we put it out right here-” Dwight turns toward the logs, confused, but Jake takes him by the arm to bring him along to the cabin.

“I brought it inside because the chocolate was melting.” Dwight seems to accept this and follows along.

When they're out of earshot, Meg leans in towards the log you’re sitting on from her own.

“Jake is proposing tonight! I think he’s doing it!” She squeals a bit in excitement and tries to look like she’s not watching when Dwight looks back before ducking inside.

You share in their excitement and join Ace in stoking the fire into a roaring flame. You watch the smoke dance and carry some ashes into the air and lean back happily. The sky is turning from purple to deep blue now. The light from the fire dances off the trunks of the trees, and you take in the nature of your surroundings as your friends chatter around you.

You squint at a shape between the trees and it moves behind a thicker trunk.

White mask.

***  
Michael would never admit to himself of ever feeling jealousy, but a certain irritation of _possessiveness_ grows as he watches. His stomach rumbles at the food, but it’s of little relevance to him. 

He spots Laurie and his knife is already in his dominant hand. The strings are connecting what he’s seeing to the same feeling of what he saw watching the teenagers in 1978. This time Laurie is collateral. _Funny._

All he has to do is wait. 

He _could_ go after the two that already diverged from the group, but he wanted you separated. He moves closer to where you will see him.

The firelight flickers over your form, creating a beautiful moving sepia of you that reminds Michael of the old photographs in the asylum. As you poke at the fire, it licks towards your fingers and that are drawn back sharply. 

_What sounds would you make when it touched you?_

Your eyes had a dream like quality, observing the realness of your habitat, peering through rose-tinted glasses to only see the welcoming nature when surrounded by the lurking sharpness of it.

He may have felt smug when the illusion broke around his presence.

Michael moves out of your line of sight, but he humors over the way a human freezes like an animal in the headlights.

The annoying man who fell in the pool speaks. Michael doesn’t like the way he looks at you.

“Oi, (y/n), you look like you’ve seen a ghost, what’s got you bothered?”

You snap out of it quickly, looking towards him and then shaking your head.

“Um, yeah sorry, I’m just...cold. I’m gonna go get my jacket from my car, I’ll be right back.”

You skitter off nervously, Michael can see the confusion on some of the other faces. 

You make it to your car before scanning the woods and spinning to check your blindspot, but you don’t need it, Michael is already walking toward you and you can see the way the orange of the distant campfire glints off of the knife he’s brandishing. You step back, you don’t want to be intimidated, but you fear for what he’ll do to your friends.

The car door stands between the two of you when you open it, pulling out your jacket without breaking eye contact. It’s seeming like you can’t escape him.

 _“How did you get here?”_ , you whisper, not knowing exactly where Jake and Dwight are.

You wait for an answer, and when you give up on one, he turns his head deliberately toward the backseat of your car and back to you.

You’re incredulous, the main question you don’t want to elaborate on is “how?”, but you wave it away to get to the point.

“Please.”, you don’t know what you’re appealing to, but you hope there’s some leverage you have in the way he sees the situation. “Please don’t hurt these people. I’ll-”

_What **will** you do?_

You don’t know, but you have to save them from whatever he’s planning.

“I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll-I’ll leave right now, okay?” He just stares at you. He twists his knife once.

“The car is open, I’ll go make an excuse to leave and be right be right back, I promise.” You hold up your hands placatingly. 

You do a quick jog back to campfire and it looks like you return shortly after Jake and Dwight.

“So, what’d I miss?”, you hope you don’t enter as clumsily as you feel.

Jake and Dwight turn to you on the log and Dwight is wearing the biggest sheepish smile and looks like he cried a little bit. You can see the little gold band on Dwight’s left hand and smile back, issuing proper congratulations.

You force yourself to say it, feeling guilty for springing it on them during a sentimental moment.

“I wanted to stay for the s’mores, sorry guys, but I gotta get home.” Some sad ‘awws’ erupt from the girls and Laurie looks at you suspiciously. 

“What, are you afraid of the dark?”, David jeers as you say your goodbyes.

“No, I just have work tomorrow.”, you grimace.

he responds with a hum of acknowledgement before laughing.

“Hate to see you go, but love to watch you leave.” 

You give him a good natured punch in the shoulder before waving to everyone and heading out.

Approaching your car once more, you can see Michael’s silhouette in the backseat and gulp. Sliding in and starting the car like normal, you try not to look back, but in the mirror you see the shadowed eyes watching you. 

It’s easy to imagine how vulnerable you are to him in the backseat. The ride home is awkward, but only for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also i want to make it clear that the “what will you do” is what you and michael are THINKING. In my headcanon or whatever, Michael is completely nonverbal
> 
> me writing a slow burn for michael: oh no I made myself thirsty for other characters


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BC OF RECENT CIRCUMSTANCES PLS READ THIS CH TW: michael murders someone who looks similar to you by breaking their neck and choking is mentioned, If this is too much for you, skip the paragraphs in {brackets}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s been a delay bc I’ve been very busy with protests and also a really shitty homelife, but I will finish this fic and that is a threat.

You turn the key to kill the engine and everything becomes silent very quickly. You avoid turning back to look at him when your body screams at you to. Your seatbelt clicks and you can hear him breathing.

“So…” your voice cuts the silence, sounding too high in your ears. You clear your throat and try again. “You took the book, is that a yes?”

This time you turn in your seat, and the sight is almost comical with the large man in the back of your small car. He doesn’t move his head or hands in response, so you sigh through your nose and exit the car. His door slams successively and you can feel his eyes on your back all the way up the sidewalk. It’s around eight o’clock, dark enough, but you hope no one is peeking through their curtains.

“You need to be more careful, Michael, the neighbors have seen you leaving in through the backyard”, your voice is hushed for no particular reason.

His presence enters beside you and the door closes as you toe off your shoes and bend down to put your keys in them. As you stand, he startles you when both of his hands roughly box you into the wall, one of them holding the knife.

You’re confused, but too tired to spare the energy to be scared. He looks laid back enough to be non-threatening, tilting his head like he got what he wanted and is simply teasing you now.

You stand under him for a couple beats, waiting for him to release you but growing impatient when he doesn’t, you carefully put your hand on his inner elbow and duck under it. 

Michael’s head turns to follow your slow movement up the stairs and into the bathroom until he hears you turn on the shower.

Your words ring in his head.

_“I’ll do whatever you want.”_

***  
Work the next day is uneventful, though waking up for it was difficult, allowing you to stew about your jealous little problem. Hopefully he won’t estrange these new friends. 

When you get home, you find a clump of seasonal flowers waiting for you on the counter with a ball of dirt and roots hanging from them. Slightly exasperated at the mess and the ridiculousness of it, you grab scissors to cut the stems and stick them in a bowl of water.

It’s an odd thing for a man like him to do, but you guess it was nice. It reminds you to go study sign language for his sake.

***  
A headache starts to pound at Michael’s temples, blurring the diagrams in the book in front of him. He stands with irritation, pent up energy buzzing in his body and driving his legs towards a hunt.

The sun flags behind cloud cover in the public park. Usually he’s indiscriminate with his victims, but tonight he wants to play rough with prey that looks like you.

Hours pass with people until it starts to drizzle. A man pulls the hood of his windbreaker over his head as he jogs down the path, unknowingly picked apart from the woods. Similar hair and build, taller than you but short enough. Michael follows towards the secluded trail.

{Stepping out from the brush, the jogger stops and curses at him before sidestepping to continuing his pace. The butt of a knife hits him at the base of his skull hard enough to send him toppling forward.

Michael fills his fingers with a fistful of hair, enjoying the tugging sensation as he pulls the man’s chest off the ground. He likes how the color of the tufts between look his digits, absentmindedly turning back to step on the person’s ankle to prevent escape. 

A strangled yell accompanies the crunch and Michael frowns. The voice is too different, unpleasant compared to yours. He turns him onto his back and cuts off the emerging screams with both hands, watching his eyes bulge in response. Watching unmoved, he frowns, the prey’s watery irises aren’t the same color as yours. 

Annoyed, he crushes the throat slowly until he feels the spine snap and throws it on the side of the path. It wasn’t as satisfying as he wanted it to be, but his urge is gone, leaving an unpleasant taste in his mouth.}

The knife hangs heavily in his jumpsuit pocket.

***  
When he sees the flowers in a bowl, Michael knows you’re home. The light of your room spills out of your open door and onto the stairs, slowly revealing your form in bed as he climbs them. 

The library book is sitting in your lap as Michael slowly appears in the dark of your doorway. You look up, slightly surprised to see him because he rarely approaches you this openly.  
“What’s wrong?”, you ask, concerned by the anxious lingering.

One hand raises to his chest and slowly begins to sign, as if unsure, and you watch enraptured before flipping to the alphabet page to refresh your memory.

You say the letters out loud as he spells, focused on his hands.

He’s spelling your name.

You stare back at him in shock for a moment until a proud smile erupts over your cheeks.

And he walks away.

***  
You see Michael more this week, each time trying to practice a new sign with him and only succeeding a few times. He’s been leaving odd things around the house for you to find and not responding to your questions about them. 

They seem to pertain to your interests, the most recent being a rather interesting looking book, but you don’t like to think about where they’re coming from so you’ve been leaving them where they lie.

You were able to make it to a doctor appointment to refill your HRT before a night shift, today you need to pick it up before starting on the laundry list of chores you have for the house.

The pharmacy is unwelcoming under the bright lighting, leading to excess nerves that fray at your sleeves as you wait for them to finish retrieving your goods. The pharmacist on duty reads it before throwing the paper bag onto the counter and processes the transaction with a particularly snotty look. You steel yourself at this, the anger simmering over your anxiety to put on an air of confidence until you leave with what you came for. 

You get home to Michael again, spending more time in the house with the ASL book since that night. Sometimes you catch him staring over it towards you. 

Very little motivation remains in your body to clean with, but you push yourself to do it anyway. 

At least there’s not a ton of furniture to dust.

Starting silently, you make your way around the bottom floor until you have to awkwardly work around Michael in the kitchen, suddenly very aware of the shittiness of your cleaning clothes. 

To ease the tension, you begin to make small talk towards him. It dies off when you struggle to scrub the inside of the oven, trying your best to ignore the obvious eyes on your ass as you’re bent over it.

You call it quits when you clean up the last of the drying baking soda goop off the racks, wiping the sweat from your brow and nearly pulling your shirt off until you remember you don’t live alone.

He looks at you curiously when you tear open the paper bag from the pharmacy and pull out the covetous vial from the little box. Still trying to ignore him, he retaliates by tailing you to the bathroom and filling the door frame as you pull out the necessary tools.

His breath audibly hitches when you unpackage the needle.

You set it down to sanitize the counter and stop when he snatches it up.

“Michael, what the hell, I need that.”

He’s holding it out of your reach, almost disgustedly. You realize needles must have a bad connotation with him and feel yourself soften.

“No, look it’s not like that,” you haven’t talked about this with him, he obviously knows you’re trans, but does he even know what that means?

“Okay...so you know how I have” you gesture at yourself “...different parts than a guy like you? Well this is a medicine I take to help with that.”

You hope that’s enough of an explanation for now, but he doesn’t relinquish the needle to you yet.

“I promise, it’s not like whatever you’re thinking of. Can please have it back? I have more, but I’d rather not waste them.”

His breathing resonates as he tentatively returns it to you, watching you like a hawk as you return to the prep. 

Despite his reservations, Michael watches with fascination as you focus on getting the angle right and sink the needle into your skin with practice, only looking up to him when you finish pushing the plunger and replacing the tool with a cotton ball.

“See? It’s fine.” You smile before looking down to cap the needle and your face heats up.

Michael leaves with a noticeable erection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want so badly to just TUCH ALREADY. BUT I CURSED MYSELF WITH A SLOWBURN I promise next chapter has relationship advancement, I just had to establish COMMUNICATION. Michael is like vax from CR “and I walk away”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws this out here before my job makes me work 9 days in a row* YEET

This weekend you were ready to splurge at the goodwill. You desperately needed to get some furniture, not having a couch, kitchen table, or even a bed frame is starting to get old.

You almost considered enlisting Michael’s help to lift the couch inside until Quentin came through for the price of pizza delivery.

Sweat drying, the two of you sit at the table after disassembling and assembling it to fit through the front door with two pies to reward the effort. You have finally declared all the structural repairs done.

“So what are you going to do with this place, now that it’s not falling apart?,” Quentin asks around a mouthful.

“Try to make it less ugly, for the most part.” You look around at the severely outdated kitchen that definitely won’t be getting an upgrade. “Just gonna slap some paint on it until I get a better job, really.”

“I think you should turn it into a party house.” he laughs at the idea, “or you could get some roommates. Are you going back to school here?”

Your stomach turns a little bit. You’ve only been living day by day so far, not knowing what the future held or what you wanted. 

“I don’t know yet.” a noncommittal answer, but he nods. The roommate comment nearly makes you choke on your food, you don’t acknowledge it and hope he hasn’t seen the extra toothbrush in the bathroom.

It’s silent as you eat until you both sit back and stretch, exhaustion settling in while you digest.

“You should get a TV, or at least a radio, it must be so boring in an empty house.”

He’s right, even with a library card it can be hard to pass the time, especially alone. 

Well, almost alone.

When Quentin leaves, you lock the door behind him and head back to clean up the leftovers. Unexpectedly, Michael is there standing over the table eating pizza like he hasn’t eaten in days. You don’t know where he was hiding while you had company, but he sure came quick for food.

This is the first time you’ve seen anything underneath the mask, the tip of his nose peeking out from underneath the lifted latex, but you can’t help but laugh a little because there’s pizza sauce smeared all over his face like a child trying to eat ice cream.

Realizing you’re present, he stiffens for a moment, but slowly relaxes before sitting and continuing to eat under your gaze. You see his blue eye watching you back intensely. 

You try not to let him know you’re staring, but now that your curiosity is piqued, your eyes are starting to wander.You want to know what his hair looks like, after spending so long knowing him as his mask, it’s a bit of a disconnect. 

You’ve been denying yourself, but you’re going to have to accept that you find him attractive, now that you find your eyes tracing his jawline and down to admire his chest. You look back up, and Michael’s still watching you. 

His face gives away nothing as he finishes the last slice.

***

You don’t know if it’s the presence of furniture that makes the difference, but Michael has begun to hang out around the house more often than before. You’d never admit it outloud, but you’ve come to enjoy his company in a domestic sense, even if he’s not a big talker.

It’s been a while since he’s come home with... _evidence_ on him and for that you’re grateful. You may be screwed up enough to let a serial killer live in your house, but you’re not so far gone that you can ignore what he’s done. Every day with him your excuses get thinner.

Quentin’s comment on boredom nags at you again. You look at Michael sitting in the bare bones living room with his book.

“Hey, Michael.” you enter gingerly, his head turns towards you. “Do you like to read?”

The question hangs in the air as soon as you say it, so you elaborate.

“I was thinking, since you were interested in the sign language book, I can pick some more up for you when I return it.”

You really hope he’ll let you return it on time.

His shoulders rise and then fall slowly, surprising you with a shrug before he returns to the page.

You also wanted to ask what he thought about movies but it looks like the conversation is over.

He’s still in the same spot when you leave for work and something within you begs for a reaction. You pause just in view of the couch he’s on and turn slightly back.

“Michael, will you ever show me your face one day?”

The way he returns your look is almost like you’ve taken him off-guard.

You take your leave, waving to Abtin on your way to work, hoping you didn’t impulsively step over the line.

***

Work started out bad and it seemed to just get worse. When you arrived you were immediately put on cleanup duty in aisle number five where somebody lost their lunch, afterwards for the next seven hours it seemed that every customer came to relieve their anger issues on you over expired coupons, and to top it all off, a group of kids decided to play football with an egg carton and fumbled it into you as soon as you turned the corner.

Eggs and shell dripped from your shirt for the rest of your shift and the walk home, leaving you already tacky and frustrated before opening the door.

The acrid smell of smoke curls your nostrils when you step inside.

“Michael?”

The door shuts behind you and you hurry to the kitchen on tired legs. A pan sits on the stovetop in disarray and what looks like burnt bread litters the ground. Michael is nowhere to be found.

 _I guess a cookbook for dummies from the library is next._

You throw the pan in the sink. On closer inspection, of course it would be eggs blackened to the metal. You guess that makes the scorched bread everywhere toast, which strikes you as weird considering you don’t have a toaster.

You can’t be bothered with the mess and head upstairs to take a shower.

***  
Pulling pajamas over your wet skin, you jump when you see Michael standing in your peripheral, almost like a child both trying to hide and get someone’s attention at the same time.

“I would appreciate it if you would at least clean up after yourself in the kitchen next time.” the day’s annoyances resurface in your tone. 

It slowly registers when you look at him that his jumpsuit is spattered with blood. He hardly gives you a chance to react, taking wide steps and breaching the gap between you and holding his hand up to your face.

You look to his face, confused, and then back to his hand, furrowing your brows before you see what he’s trying to show you. Decent sized burns litter his fingers, a few blisters already bubbling to the surface. 

You think back and presume it’s from holding bread over the gas stove.

Sighing, you lead him tiredly to the bathroom and have him sit on the toilet while you dig in the cabinet for the first aid kit.

All too fast, but also excruciatingly slow, you take out the burn cream and gently rub it over his fingers, looking to his eyes multiple times to see if you’re causing pain.

His hand holds inhumanely still while you wrap the gauze, how large it is compared to yours dawning as you apply the medical tape.

“You really should have cleaned up before wrapping it, but don’t pop the blisters or they can get infected.” you lecture while piling everything back into the white box it came from.

You stash it away and find him still staring at his injured hand, unmoving. You stand in front of the sink awkwardly eyeing him.

“What do you want me to do? Kiss it better?” you snort, trying to ease the tension.

Michael turns at the statement to look at you, blinking before his hands slowly move up to the neck of his mask.

You watch in awe as he timidly peels his mask off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell me what you guys think, I don't plan on making the reader be a cashier forever bc we be reading to escape reality, should we do college or find some swanky job that pays better? hmmm maybe strode realty is hiring 
> 
> *starts rapidly pressing the speed up romance button bc writing slow burn kills me but also IT NEEDS TO HAPPEN THIS WAY*


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Check out these arts that inspired it all, i love this person's art  
> https://stabbyhandsmcmike.tumblr.com/post/611440992957153280/im-alive-tired-but-alive  
> https://stabbyhandsmcmike.tumblr.com/post/614620478223630336/idk-have-some-lowkey-sensual-myers-with-some-anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally a day off from work HUZZAH, that shit sucks man I'm way too busy, but I love you guys I will never stop updating

Light brown hair bounced back into small curls when the mask pulls off of them, just long enough to hang over his forehead. 

You feel like you’re seeing too much all at once, yet not enough, unable to process what’s in front of you. 

The pink of his lips, slightly chapped, is set in an unreadable line. Your eyes slowly trace the curves and along the straightness of his nose. You can feel the sadness change your face, seeing the long gouging scar through his eyebrow down to the cheekbone. Redness tints the flesh underneath as you pick apart his appearance, staring into the pale blue eye that can’t see you. 

Finally, you meet his gaze, peering into you intensely from behind a stormy blue. 

He’s beautiful.

Enraptured, you reach out to him still sitting before you. He spooks like a wild animal, standing and shouldering past you, filling you with regret.

“Wait, Michael-”

You try to follow, but you hear his door lock and stop, before sadly returning to your own room.

Closing your eyes on your bed, you try to remember his visage in detail, a warm feeling blooming in your chest.

***  
It surprised you to hear his feet on the stairs in the morning as you sat at the table with your breakfast. You assume he’s usually gone by the time you wake up or, at the very least, not interested in leaving his room. 

You sign good morning to him with your mouth full and you think you catch a small nod in response. Trying to go back to your food, you see him in your peripheral and hear the fridge open. 

The egg carton hits the counter with too much force and you cringe.

“Dude? Are you _trying_ to break them?” You put your spoon down and look up at him.

He points at the carton.

“You want eggs?” you sigh. You guess it’s better to make them yourself than to let him loose in the kitchen and have what happened last time.

He follows close behind as you scrub the char off the pan from yesterday, you can feel his body heat and try not to lean back too much.

When you dry the pan he turns to let you move to the stove.

“What do you want in it?” you don’t have many spices, but it’s better than just plain eggs.

He doesn’t move and you question how many signs about food the two of you know. 

“Cheese it is then.”

The gas stove clicks for a couple of seconds before catching and a loaf of bread lands near you in a similar fashion to the eggs. You recall Michael’s attempt on toast and silently untwist the bag and press the slices into the hot pan.

You know he’s watching over your shoulder very closely, but his presence feels calming almost, like the slow morning and sleep still hangs over you both.

You toss everything onto a plate and it’s nearly snatched from you as you attempt to set it on the table, breaking the stupor. 

_‘guess he’s hungry._

You grab him a glass of water with a small smile when you see him roll his mask up to eat. 

Sitting back down and pouring some more cereal in with the portion, you notice more now that he tucked into the chair next to yours. 

You're close enough to brush elbows.

He finishes the food very fast, almost inhaling it, before grabbing the water.

“Hey, slow down! You’ll choke-” you doubt he even tasted it fully. 

He doesn’t listen, but doesn’t rise immediately when he’s done, instead, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and pulling the mask back down.

You’re going to have to work on better manners with him. Frowning, you feel kind of like you may have signed up to be a babysitter.

“I have work today, but I get off early, do you want anything from the store?”

You can almost hear the cogs turning in his head and immediately almost regret using the word ‘anything’.

Michael signs over the mask's mouth in a way that almost makes you short circuit.

_Oh_

“Ice Cream?” he nods. “Okay, what flavor?” You pick up your plates to put them in the sink.

“Oh wait, we don’t know signs for those. Um…” you wrack your brain for options and turn back to him. “Chocolate? Vanilla? Cookies and cream?”

No answer. 

“Butter pecan...cookie dough…strawberry...”

His hand moves to sign yes and you sigh in relief.

“Okay, I’ll write that down. Just don’t do anything-” you were going to say ‘bad’, but you doubt he’ll listen. “Just don’t hurt anyone tonight, please?” 

You hope that ice cream is enough of a bargaining chip for someone’s life.

***  
The day went well enough, Dwight came back from his vacation and the two of you got to talk about his wedding plans for a nice change of pace. 

He asks if you’ve seen Laurie recently, and now that you think about it, you haven’t. You didn’t want to presume, but you did find it odd that she hasn’t called recently, since she’s been checking up on you since the night you told her about Michael. 

“Yeah, I was hoping she wouldn’t do it this year, but every October she holes herself up in her house and tries to figure out ‘where the shape will strike this year’.” Dwight grimaces in disappointment. “I tried to talk to her about it, but her room looks like a conspiracy theory detective’s office.”

“The shape?” You already know what he’s talking about, but you try your best to sound inquisitive.

“Michael Myers. Don’t worry, she’ll be alright, she usually calls after halloween.”

You know he must have heard the concern you tried to hide in your voice, but you didn’t even want to admit to yourself that it wasn’t for Laurie. Now that she knows he’s alive, and even more, around your house, she could be dangerous.

The conflicting ideals you’ve been suppressing bubble to the surface. You don’t want either of them to be hurt, but it fully realizes within you now that you’ve been housing your friend’s tormentor. 

You check out and excuse yourself from Dwight, blaming a headache. 

The sliding doors part and you step out under a dark sky and to get pelted by freezing autumn rain. Hunkering in on yourself, you walk for a few feet before skipping into a quick jog.

It takes you at least 10 minutes to reach home, soaked and shivering around a tub of ice cream. 

Moving to unlock the door, you find it open already. Sulking in and dropping your shopping bag on the floor, you begin to shuck off your dripping outer layer. When you jump and nearly fall over while peeling your pants off your legs, you notice a towel hanging from the end of the railing of the stairs.

A bit shocked, but still grateful, you wrap it around your shoulders and try to rub yourself warm. Looking around, you don’t see Michael, so you leave your clothes by the door and shuffle to put the ice cream in the freezer before it melts.

You hurry to put on your most plush pajamas, wrapping a blanket around you like a cape, before searching the house for Michael. You find him downstairs, reclined on the couch in the living room. Standing in the doorway, you wait for a response, but you get none. 

Moving closer in the dark, you can hear his soft rhythmic breathing. 

This is the first time you’ve ever seen him _asleep_.

Unsure if you actually want to wake him or not, you try to slide onto the unoccupied portion of the couch.

It dips underneath you, in an instant Michael starts forward with his knife stopping centimeters from your chest, a sharp gasp stinging your throat and staying there.

The willpower it takes to lift your eyes from the knife to his face feels is straining, blood pumping in your ears as he stares you down. It slowly lowers, his breathing betraying his adrenaline.

“..sorry..” you breathe out, not moving from your spot yet. 

His form corners you for a little while longer until you hear a small huff behind the mask and he relaxes back to his side.

You allow it to be quiet until your heart rate lowers.

“I brought you your ice cream...”

He looks almost sheepish and doesn’t meet your eyes. His hand signs a small thank you from his chin.

“Thank you for the towel.”

This silence you can feel thickly, but this time Michael is clearly uncomfortable in it.

“Hey...you know you’re my friend, right?”

He startles, startling you, never having seen a reaction like that from him.

The way he looks you in the eyes is almost vulnerable and it makes your heart ache.

“I’m glad you live here with me. I would be really lonely without you.”

You feel the blanket shift and his large hand touches yours, making your world feel like pop rocks for a brief moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ITS HAPPENING!!! still gotta be slow burn tho. BUT ITS STARTING!!!
> 
> please thank my friend vell for her input on mikeys icecream


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is a feelings chapter bc I needed it and you KNOW michael gotta have an existential crisis before intimacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a playlist for this fic bc I need to listen to something while I write, any song recs?  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/78Ru4lDMA1IDQ5hqH59jfO?si=mwPJD0KiTAu0idht046txA

It starts like peeling off a bandaid, the way the light stings his eyes. He keeps them closed until his body acclimates, opening them like he was diving into freezing water. It was a breath of fresh air, literally.

Michael sees your eyes dance over his face and the sudden chilled feeling is chased away by burning at the tips of his ears and the back of his neck. You look into his eyes and the eye contact is more intense without his mask. Too intense.

His body moves of its own volition to escape, running from the tangles in his stomach.

When the door cuts off the outside world, confusion and overwhelming sensations manifest in jitters.

Fists clenching and unclenching around air before meeting the comfort of his knife handle. 

The itch is back. A ball of tension in his chest that feels stifling until he finds a target for the energy.

***  
Michael hears you move through the house in the morning, his stomach flipping in a way reminiscent of the first day of school. 

Your footsteps make their way to the kitchen and eventually die down, cueing his entrance. 

His quiet is effortless, until it isn’t. Michael takes extra care to put weight onto the bottom steps, hitting where the wood creaks for good measure. That should be good enough for you to ascertain his presence. 

He stares in the doorway for approximately five seconds until you look up. You sign good morning with your nondominant hand and return to your cereal.

A childish indignance flares within him. He doesn’t know what response he wanted, but he wanted more than _that_.

Michael moves into the kitchen, acting determinedly imposing and irritating.

It trips and falls flat over your imperceptiveness, his internal tantrum melting when you actually get up to help him. His expectations are short-circuited by your demeanor as you scramble some eggs and ask for his input.

His stomach growls at the smell, realizing that his hunger is making him impatient.

This time it feels normal when he rolls his mask up in front of you. Not all the way, but enough to have garnered hesitation previously. Michael doesn’t dwell on it, the food in front of him taking precedence. 

***  
The thundering of the rain lulled him to sleep in the waning light of the living room, a rare, sleepy calm suffusing him as he waits in the thrall of the couch. 

From the comfort of a dreamless sleep, a shift in room jolts him awake to a darkened room. Michael’s body reacts, fear of the unknown gripping at his lungs, the fog on his brain hardly clear enough to recognize the sound of you underneath him.

Tunnel vision grappled by pure willpower, the fear in your eyes as they look up to him cracks something inside him. Your fear used to stir something primal within him, and it still does, but this time he almost lost control and ruined it all.

You apologize _to him_.

For the first time in his life, Michael feels something akin to horror. It’s diluted and suppressed, but the betrayal that flashes within you triggers a psychosomatic nausea. He _hates_ losing control.

He withdraws with an annoyed huff, almost embarrassed.

“-you know you’re my friend right?”, your words pierce his demeanor.

Your hair is wet from outside. The light from the hallway behind you bounces off of it, creating something similar to a halo effect.

“I would be really lonely without you.”  
Some of the cracks you’ve been chipping into him cave and Michael’s heart aches. 

He hates it. He’s used to the void in its place, angry at the confusing emotions that sprouted from his paltry curiosity. He doesn’t understand them.

But he also doesn’t want them to stop.

Michael’s bandaged hand slowly snakes through the blanket to find you.

Sparks fly as you touch, the warmth pooling at the connection almost too much to bear. 

It’s quiet for a while as you both soak in the situation, neither moving in fear of startling the other.

You speak first; you know he won’t, and you don’t want to lose whatever it is between you to his impulsive escapism.

“I’ve never done this before.” You leave whatever ‘this’ is open to interpretation. “I’ve never felt comfortable in my own skin in front of someone like I am with you.”

You try to look at him like you’re trying not to look into the sun.

‘Me too.’ he signs.

You nod, expecting as much, and he inches further into your line of sight, yanking his hand away.

His annunciation is more violent this time, his fingers saying ‘confused’ before they fist into the hair of his mask.

“Hey, it’s okay, I am too. We’ll just take this at our own pace-”

‘Hurt’

You stop, not understanding, searching for the right words.

‘Have to be-’ you don’t recognize the sign he ends with.

“I..don’t know what that one means.” you nearly whisper, afraid you’ve lost your chance.

It takes him a tense moment before he retries.

‘Not feeling.’

You think that the grievous sensation welling in your chest could kill you. You don’t have any words, hoping that he can feel your intent if you feel it hard enough. Moving cautiously, you interlock one of your legs with his and lean a little closer.

It feels more comfortable to sign this time, the silence forming a seal over your lips.

‘You’re allowed to feel.’

He’s much larger than you and even more dangerous, but instinctually you feel the need to protect him like you can see the small, scared little boy shining through briefly. 

He leans closer and physically relaxes, still only touching by the ends of your legs. The weight of your imagination sits on your lungs. You can only imagine what he’s been through that’s had this kind of effect on him, the idea of it opening the floodgates of your own traumas on your tired mind and body.

You breathe deep and close your eyes, doing your best to clear your head. 

The two of you rest in the comfort of each other's presence, not yet ready to wade into the deeper waters that threaten to swallow your patchwork life raft.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s mostly a plot introducing chapter this time, but oh boy i got big stuff comin my dudes I had an inspiration break through

The rain had stopped some time in the early morning, leaving the world drippy and overcast with the fallen leaves glued to the ground like paper mache.

Michael cracks his neck to the side, trying to alleviate the twinge and unstick the latex from his skin, feeling unduly warm for an early October morning. 

You tried not to press your luck after he attacked you last night, but couldn’t control how you slid down the cushions as you slept. He swallows thickly. 

Michael’s first instincts faded to the back of his mind as he watched your chest rise and fall from where you pinned him at the hip. He’s watched you sleep many times, but never this close, never from this angle. 

Your hair had dried haphazardly from the rain, begging his hand to reach over and touch it, light and careful not to wake you.

When he looks away from your face to how you’re reclined against him, his heart bungee jumps in his chest.

He’s seen you in more compromising positions, but this time you were touching him. 

He deftly pulls himself out from under you, trying his best to ignore your confused noises and searches for his strawberry ice cream.

***  
Your head hits the couch cushions, suddenly suffocated by the blanket, and you kick your limbs to shake your confines. Squeezing your eyes shut to block the light, you can hear Michael leave the room and you make annoyed noises towards him.

But it’s too late, you’re awake now and in desperate need of a shower. Pulling the towel around your neck, you get up and gather your damp work clothes from the foyer to groggily head upstairs.

Your thoughts run wild with last night’s implications as the hot water rinses the knots out of your muscles.

Now that you’ve had a taste of closeness, it feels like an addiction in both the way you want to chase the craving and get away from the risky substance of it. The manifestation of your loneliness in this way scares you, so you lock it away again and pretend it isn’t there.

It’s hard to put on real clothes when sweatpants can be so convincing, but you know you won’t get your errands done with those on. Laundry being one of them.

Your last clean pair of jeans are on the tighter side, so you prefer not to wear them unless you’re _trying_ to get someone to stare at your ass. 

Thinking about it for a second, you smirk. If you’re done with your internal ‘morality debate’, it wouldn’t hurt to flirt a little right? 

You set the laundry basket down in the hallway and make a pit stop in the kitchen for breakfast. You find Michael with his mask fully off and scraping the bottom of the ice cream container. 

He looks up with an intense stare, you can almost hear his sarcastic “what”.

You turn and open the fridge instead of responding, the chill catches you off guard and you sneeze. Michael stares at you in your peripheral, running a shiver down your spine.

A sharp ring from the wall phone pierces the silence and makes you jump. You swear you hear Michael snort a laugh behind you before it trills again. You contemplate letting it ring, but a moment's peace it isn't worth it to miss a call from work or one of your friends.

“Hello?”

“(Y/n)?, this is Laurie, are you free right now?”

You pause before you answer, looking at Michael for a hot second before saying yes.

“Do you remember what I showed you at the coffee shop?”

You do. There were newspaper clippings with her writing in red ink and photographs that she pulled out of a very thick folder.

“You saw him yourself. Every Halloween he comes back and it's getting closer."

"What do you mean?" you nearly whisper. She sounds like a prophet of doom, solemn with the cursed to never be believed.

"The disappearances in town get less scattered. It’s obvious if they just look but-” an angry breath blows through the phone before she continues in a more even tone. “The police won’t hear it.”

You don’t know how to respond, and almost tell her, but she continues.

“They maintain that Samuel Loomis shot him to death and brush off my evidence. But this time I have someone in the press who’s interested in the story!”

“A news reporter?” you have a hard time believing any of the local news hosts would jeopardize their career without substantial evidence.

You can almost hear her grimace. “Jed Olsen with Haddonfield times. He’s not a big journalist, but it’s better than nothing. The public needs to know.” 

“I don’t know what you’re getting at, Laurie.” At the mention of her name, you see Michael- now with his mask on- turn slightly in your direction. You lean against the wall and fiddle with the phone cord trying to look nonchalant.

“I need hard proof. I want you to help me catch him.”

“Like, physically?!” you blurt out. Even if you wanted to, you know that it's a death sentence.

“At least on camera.” so she’s thought about it. 

“I dunno, Laurie…”

“Please, (Y/n), I’ve seen what happens on Halloween for three years straight. I don’t want you to be next, you _know_ the threat is real.”

Michael is standing five feet from you and staring you down. You don’t know if he can hear the other side of the conversation, but he doesn’t look murderous yet.

You sigh.

“Do you have a plan?”

“I can’t track him when nobody is reporting sightings, so I want to stake out your house.”

“You’re going to be watching my house?” you’re not trying to sound creeped out, but anybody would feel uncomfortable with that, right?

“Just for a few days around halloween. It’s not like you have anything to hide.” You don’t know if you’re paranoid or if her tone is slightly accusatory.

“No! But what if... I don’t know. I just kind of wanted to celebrate Halloween a little bit.” Your excuse is really thin.

“I wanted to celebrate Halloween once, too.” Laurie’s voice sounds like an older sister trying to guilt you into something.  
You both sit in silence until you groan in defeat into the phone.

“Fine, but only some of the night, okay? I’ll probably have work in the morning.”

Laurie thanks you and you get the feeling she’d hug you if she was there in person. Or maybe punch you in the shoulder. When you hang up the phone you turn back around to Michael, who’s stepped closer when you weren’t looking.

“Michael, Laurie is hunting for you.” You say it seriously, but he responds with his small head tilt.

“You need to be careful,” you stress. “She’s bringing proof to the press-” Michael cuts you off with a shrug and begins to turn away.

“Don’t brush this off! The only thing keeping you safe is that nobody knows you’re alive.”

He walks away out of the back door, probably out of spite, leaving you annoyed and longing. Your hope begins to bleed away like it's anemic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized I have to use html to italicize shit that's italicized in my google docs... I have an IQ of zero
> 
> I want to phase back in to making Mikey a little more sadistic as it gets closer to halloween. I love me a sweet virgin myers, but mix that with just a pinch of monster myers and that's the Fun Shit. I was fixing the cookout chapter and now I want to make him creepy/scary again lol ((why not both??))


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me before riding michael's ass into the ground: ok, you can have a little dom. as a treat

You’ve grown comfortable in his presence, no longer jumping and walking on eggshells with a look of trepidation in your eyes. It makes Michael feel normal. Something inside him is picking a fight with it. Halloween is growing closer, and the energy that comes with it has Michael craving something that you’ve stopped supplying. The entertainment that comes with fear.

Your head has felt stuffy since your evening jog through the rain, but you’ve been doing your best to push through it because you still have shit to do on your day off. You’ve finally made it to the point where your neighbors are putting out fake tombstones and nobody looks twice at the running spray paint marring the front of your house.  
You don’t have much, but there’s some left over cardboard from boxes that you can cut up and write on so it looks like you have a day of crafting ahead of you.

You haven’t seen Michael since yesterday and it’s starting to piss you off. He’s disappeared like this before, when you weren’t as involved, but now...you can’t help but let your anxiety get the best of you. Both for his sake and the civilians of Haddonfield.

One of your brown cardboard bats flies down the lawn in the wind as you try to tape another around the front door. You turn to drop what’s in your hands and go after it and see a lithe man in a seasonal pullover drop down and snatch it from the ground with his one free hand, look it over, and jog lightly over to return it.

Setting down the tape and walking over to thank him, you see a professional looking camera in his off hand. You thank him as he hands it over, but his grip lingers a little too long on the other end of the cardboard.

“You’re the person who lives in the Myers’ house, right?” 

The question catches you off guard, and you’re almost offended. The man pushes up his square glasses and brushes his mop of brown curls back into his beanie.

“Ah- sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Jed Olsen from the Haddonfield times.” He extends his hand expecting a handshake.

“(Y/n),” you say. “And yes, I live here. How did you get my address?” You shake his hand cautiously and out of societal obligation. It feels normal at first, but when you try to withdraw he holds onto it steadfast.

“Hm, Laurie said she’d call to let you know” He hums and finally lets go of your hand. “But as for the address, any man who calls himself a journalist knows the site of the most famous murder in all of Haddonfield!”

You cringe at his words. At least it wasn’t famous enough to garner tourists, only the occasional curious local. Jed’s eyes were bright and energetic, betraying his excitement, so you can only assume he’s one of those true crime fanatics. 

“I got the basics from Laurie, but it sounds like you’ve got the main scoop and we’re looking for first hand accounts here. So, whaddya say? Up for an interview?” He pull his camera up and gestures towards you and the house.

It dawns on you that this may not be a great idea. If your name, or the house even, is mentioned in the paper you could be branded as crazy. You aren’t one to dwell on reputation, but you know how people in the tabloids are treated.

“I don’t know, it might come back and bite me if I put my name out there…”

He pouts a little and lowers the camera. 

“I don’t write libel, but if it makes you feel better I can make it completely anonymous.”

You grimace and begrudgingly agree.

“Excellent!~” Jed exclaims in a sing-song voice that annoys you more than it should. “Do you mind if I record this?”

He’s already fishing in his pocket and pulls a chunky hand-held tape recorder into your personal space. In his other hand, he fumbles a small notepad and nearly drops the camera if it weren’t for the cord attaching it to his neck.

“I guess…” You’re surprised by his pushiness that contrasts with the look he’s constructed. 

“Can you walk me through what happened the night you saw the man dressed as Michael Myers in your home?” He angles the tape recorder to his face slightly before pointing it back at you, already putting you on the spot.

“Uh, yeah, let me retrace my steps a little bit.” You gesture for him to follow you to the front door and he just about skips behind you. You wrack your brain for the details that you tried to forget, Jed snaps a couple shots of the house.

“I had gotten back from meeting Laurie around three; I think it was a little over a month ago.” He writes what you assume is the date into the notepad. “I had a repairman change the locks, so I wasn’t alone in the house until at least four. I think he waited for him to leave.”

“Could I have the name of the repair man to corroborate your story?”

You immediately furrow your brows, slightly affronted.   
“Why would I lie about something like that? It’s not even important to what happened.”

“Why are you so defensive?”

You cannot believe the _nerve_ of this man in your own home, no less. 

“Oh yes, it’s going to be anonymous, that makes sense. Please, go on.”

Crossing your arms and biting back a retort to kick him out purely for Laurie’s sake, you continue.

“I was upstairs getting...uh...undressed,” furious scribbling from Jed. “And after I took my shirt off I was pushed into the wall really hard-”

“May I see where?” He’s got the pen balanced between his hand and his chin, looking at you innocently. You hesitate, and ultimately don’t know why you say yes.

It’s easier to demonstrate, standing where it all happened. 

“He started to choke me, pulling me up off the ground right here-he had his hands around my neck.” You take a shaky breath, slightly uncomfortable with sharing a traumatic event with a stranger. The scratching of pen on paper is distracting.

“I don’t know how long it was, but my vision started spotting and right before I thought I was gonna die,” you gesture to the floor. “He dropped me.”

“Incredible. Do you think there was a reason he stopped?” Jed stand in the middle of your bedroom, fingers itching around his camera.

You swallow. Of course you know now. Or you think you do. 

“No. I don’t know.” 

Jed narrows his eyes as you look away from him. He can read you like a book, albeit you’re trying to be closed off, but he’s got a press pass to what you’re thinking. 

“And then what happened?” he licks his lips as you turn away from him.

“He left while I was on the floor. When I was done coughing I jumped up and locked it.” 

“That’s it?” your story disappoints him. It doesn’t sound like his Michael to give up on his prey, but it’s the best lead he has.

“Yeah.” you nod, cutting it off there, the rest doesn’t matter. Jed ends the tape and tucks it away, gesturing that he’ll follow you out.

“Actually~” he stops with his notepad again. “Do you mind showing me where you were when the locks were being changed?”

“Sure.” You say kind of strained, anything to get him out of your room quicker.

The stop in the kitchen is quick, and you rub your temples as he stops to jot down notes.

_‘Back door unlocked’_

“Thanks! That should be all I need for now.” He claps the paperback shut and tucks the pen behind his ear. 

You take a breath of relief when he finally steps back out the front door. 

“Oh, and if you think of anything else, here’s my card.” He smiles at you in a predatory way when you take it. “It was nice meeting you in person, sweetheart.”

***  
Michael listens to the last dying struggles of the person underneath his knife, savoring the ending moments of its frenzied fear as its last breath wheezes out.

The thought of you hasn’t been leaving his mind as he killed anymore, making it harder to ignore the growing fantasy of what you would sound like with a knife in your chest and all your other delicious noises of pain.

But he doesn’t want you dead, which is the frustrating part standing in the way.

Wiping the blood off his knife on his sleeve doesn’t clean it off well, the jumpsuit already wet with the blood of multiple people tonight. 

Michael stalls on the journey home. He knows what he wants, it burns under the surface in a low roil that becomes hotter in contact with you. He hasn’t acted on it, but the reaction he provoked accidentally didn’t feel as good as it should have.

It’s because he wasn’t in control.

Instead it felt like when you lean too far back in a chair and start to fall. He scared himself more than he scared you. He won’t choke on his restraint this time.

The back door slams behind him with purpose, smelling the familiar air of the house suddenly pervaded by the blood on his body. Blood and mud mingle in tracks on the tile and wood.

When he stands in your doorway, you look up from where you sit on your bed with a book.

“Michael?” inquisitive. His knife slides easily in his slick hand so you can see it. 

You groan and chastise him for making a mess in the house, dancing around the subject of his activities. Getting up from the bed, you move to skirt around him and grab a towel.

But you're not scared enough of him anymore to give him that look of fear.

His left hand shoots grabs you by the neck and pins you to the door frame with force, coagulating red smearing across your skin. The way you grunt in response electrifies him, but when you speak it’s with confusion and it makes him angry.

Your small body is easily tossed to the floor, not hard enough to bruise because he’s toying with you. When you try to rise he plants his knee on your chest.

He can see it in your eyes, you’re trying not to be scared, but it’s human instinct and he knows exactly where to press. More of his weight down upon you and you wheeze like so delightfully. Michael looks hard into your eyes, only met with steely defiance that drives him mad.

The knife slams into the wood next your head, sinking in and sticking. The whiff of air blows your hair around your face and you flinch hard. 

That’s what he was looking for. When you open your eyes, you’re cringing to hide the hurt, but the red dripped onto you looks so beautiful.

Michael slowly lifts off of you, sliding the knife out easily and staring you into the floor. Pinned by eyes until he huffs, sated, and leaves you on the edge once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no excuses or explanations, i don't even have a 'step on me' kink i promise   
> Michael's kinks tho? that's a whole different ball game baby and I will write him enjoying every second of it


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK GUYS IM SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT HERE'S WHAT HAPPENED: I was riding my bike home from work and I got hit by a car. God cannot kill me.
> 
> but seriously life also got really tricky after that and my left arm was fucked so writing was hard but now I'm back

Danny flips through his collection of pictures of you on his camera, picking apart his subject critically.

 _“This is so not fair.”_ The ghostface whispers to himself vehemently. “What does Michael see in a guy like _you._ ” 

He angrily drops his camera to his lap, not seeing an answer. “Why would he spare _you, huh?_ ” Michael’s never spared anyone. His unspoken words hang in the air of the darkroom at the Haddonfield Times office building.

Danny smiles too sweet and too wide. 

No matter, you’re simply the collateral that will lead him to Michael, just a loose end to cut when you’ve done your job.

***  
You bleached the floors until the house reeked, throwing the windows open and crossing your fingers for a stiff breeze to blow through. You’ve been avoiding Michael in your own home, which is steadily growing more aggravating because he sure isn’t avoiding you.

You snort. The bleach smell must have irritated him, because it looks like he finally cleared out of the house today. You don’t care whether or not Laurie catches him anymore, you’re still pissed about what he pulled the other day. Like all the shit that happened between you didn’t matter.

Ironically, you’ve been giving him the silent treatment and he doesn’t seem happy with that at all. He’s become an insistent pest in response, starting to pettily bully you just to get a reaction, like holding things out of your reach or blocking doorways, and at one point, even barging into the bathroom to flush the toilet while you were in the shower.

Taking your post at the deserted checkout counter with Quentin, you pick up one of the fresh papers that caught your eye while you make idle chatter.

 ** _HALLOWEEN CANCELLED?_**! In big block letters across the town tabloid ‘The Fielder’.

“Dang, I hope not, Halloween is one of my favorite holidays.” You comment, flashing the front page to Quentin. 

“I wouldn’t worry”, he scoffs. “They don’t cancel trick or treating for anything around here.” He grimaces briefly, knowing he really means anything. “Not that I would mind though.”

“You don’t like Halloween?”

“Eh, I’m not a fan of horror movies.” He stares into the distance as you put the paper back. “They make it hard to sleep.”

Usually you would rib your old friends for being scaredy-cats with your favorite flicks, but it doesn’t feel right in this anymore.

“Oh, by the way, Dwight’s back.”

“Really? That’s cool, I feel like I haven’t seen him in forever.” It would be nice to get together with him as a friend again, you got along well with everyone he introduced you to. 

You make a mental note to try harder to develop healthy friendships with people who aren’t mass murderers.

***

It’s autumn, so the regular cafe that you meet up with Laurie smells more strongly of pumpkin pie than their usual coffee. This time you see Jed hovering over Laurie’s papers spread over the table and it stops you in your tracks. Something about him puts you on edge, but when he spots you his smile holds no venom this time as he waves you over emphatically.

“Hey there, doll, what took ya so long?” Jed bumps shoulders with you as you take a seat warily. 

You chance a look up at Laurie as you stumble over telling him you just got off work. She looks as serious as she usually is when you talk about Michael, but you think you catch her left eye twitch in annoyance.

“Laurie’s helped me gather the facts, and connecting what we know gives us a pretty strong case” He looks over his notebook with the back of his pencil in his mouth for a beat and then smiles. “ _But_ , we’re going to need something undeniable if you hope to convince this town’s deadbeat police department.”

You gesture to the camera he seems to bring with him everywhere with a nod. 

“You want a picture-”

“Ha! More than that, ba-” Laurie slams her empty coffee cup on the table loud enough to make him look at her.

“He wants a picture with his mask off.” 

You and Laurie stare at each other, both of you knowing that something like that would be impossible. Jed talks on, either oblivious or ignoring the tension.”

“He’s come back to the house before, so it shouldn’t be hard. All we have to do is wait for the next time.”

“And how are we supposed to get his mask off? And on top of that, you won’t be around all the time to snap a picture” You ask, irritated at his disregard for the fact that you _live there._

“Well we could work that out, I mean, you’ve survived an encounter with him before so-”

“You plan to use (Y/n) as bait?” You’re glad you aren’t on the other side of Laurie’s glare, but Jed doesn’t flinch.

“He seems really insistent on doing it alone, but really (Y/n) I was hoping you’d let me stick around- It’s for your own safety, you know~.”

You shake your head instinctively. You don’t trust Jed, but you have been rethinking your living situation.

Jed continues to lay it on thick, so you excuse yourself and tell Laurie you’ll call her later if you think of anything and ignore the pointed stare you get from him.

***

You chose the hard way, but Danny didn’t mind. He hid unnoticed, shadows on the black of his costume while you were exposed by the light of the house through uncurtained windows.

He’s seen Michael in the house, it’s only expected you’d deny _him_ entry when you came to share your little lies at the coffee shop. He can imagine that Laurie would sniff you out as a rat if he wasn’t already keeping her busy.

It’s funny really, he thinks. How you play so innocent with everyone, but you oh so weren’t. Danny plays with the idea in his mind, what would you look like if everyone were to find out, hmm? 

_Oooh, and what would you do to keep that little secret from getting out?~_


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael: *is an asshole*  
> You: *reacts like a normal human*  
> Michael: :|  
> Michael >:[

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy halloween hoes, I'm back and it's sexy slasher time

The deeper october nights were getting colder, but Danny’s face was beaded with sweat behind the mask that captured the heat of his breath. It wasn’t safe for him yet to enter the house already occupied by Michael, but he knows how to be patient. The chill was starting to bite through the leather gloves curled around the camera, fidgeting his fingers as he approaches the back of the house. Sliding the flash on and off, he waits.

The kitchen window by the back porch is almost perfect, granting him visual access to one of the busiest areas of a house. Even better, his idol spends a lot of time here. The obsessive in Danny analyzes the idiosyncrasies of his subjects in fascination. Michael Myers eats a lot and, he regards curiously, seems to have a penchant for sweets.

Craning his neck for a better view, his concentration is interrupted by the entrance of his prosecution. Facing the man in the fridge, a brief surprise flits across your face followed by discomfort and trepidation.  
Danny remembers his camera, pulling it up and lying in wait for the perfect picture.

The rapid fire click of camera shutters is silent to the house on the other side of the glass.

***  
Your hunger outweighed your need to avoid awkward situations, and you’ve been glaring uselessly at Michael from your corner of the kitchen for at least five minutes now to no avail. 

Finally you stomp over with as much visible annoyance as you can muster and try to interpose yourself between him and the open fridge, blindly reaching for whatever you can grab. 

You feel the rough shove of a large hand impact on the back of your skull, Michael abruptly pulling you back by your hair with an indifferent look.

An outraged grunt is drawn from you as you backpedal in pain, futilely squirming in his grasp, hands prying at his.

“Come _on_ , Michael-” you stumble, breathing heavily, when he finally releases you. You meet his neutral eyes behind the mask. 

Michael stares back at you, patiently waiting. He’s been pushing all your buttons for a week trying to find the reset. It’s too introspective to expect him to regret, he wants both sides of you and you’ll be the target of his frustrations until he gets it. 

Your eyes aren’t confused anymore, just hurt, which is what happens to be infuriating him. _Why can’t you just go back to normal?_

You watch warily as Michael struggles with a silent tantrum and storms out, throwing open the back door with enough force to mark the wall.

***  
The Ghostface watches Michael Myers leave from a safe distance, frowning at the ‘out of character’ emotional outburst. 

_“Looks like the toy is outgrowing its entertainment factor. Good~.”_ Danny toys with his hunting knife and reclines in his hiding spot, waiting for the lights in the house to snuff out.

The town’s first serial killer doesn’t return by the time the back door squeaks open just like Danny predicted. Listening carefully and rubbing his fingers in the heat difference of the house, he almost laughs at how easy you’ve made it for him.

He knows the way through your house already, after all _you’re_ the one who showed it to him. He skips straight to the good stuff, snooping through whatever personal items you keep on the bottom floor, pocketing a few things to piss you off before growing bored.

Venturing up the stairs, he decides to save your room for last, passing the closed door with a promise to return.

Camera flashes light up Michael’s room, immortalizing every inch so he can pour over it _in private._ Danny’s fingers itch to touch, but he restrains himself as if it were a museum, each artifact precious and fragile. If even a hair was out of place, Michael could catch on and his house of cards would fall.

The bathroom is an obvious stop, considering what _he_ keeps under the sink.

Opening the cabinets in the low light, Danny purses his lips as he rifles through everything. Reaching to the back, he pulls out a milk carton with a curious look until recognition dawns on him and he peers inside.

 _”Ooh needles, huh? What have you been playing with (Y/n)?”_ The flash of a camera snaps a picture for safekeeping before the sharps container is returned to its place.

The flash goes off again, lighting under the counter for a brief blinding moment. Ghostface picks through the items, first aid kit, alcohol swabs, other normal bathroom stuff, a cloth wrapped object-

His hovering hands stop above it, withdrawing it slowly, even more intrigued by the odd density of it. The cover slips away to reveal a shockingly realistic fake penis that Danny almost drops. Wiggling it around, he has to cover his mouth to stifle his laughter and decides to stuff it into his pocket if not for blackmail then for his own immaturity.

Now he _has_ to get into your room. He doesn't know whether you’re asleep or not. Either way he’s coming in, _’he’d just end up gutted a little sooner than planned’_ he smiles. 

Testing the door handle meets resistance and he curses under his breath, stopping for a moment.

_Well, you see, that’s the thing with old houses, sometimes the door frames will settle and you can just-_

Danny twists the knob, lifting up and towards the hinges on the door while pushing inwards. The door opens with only the soft click of the metal to give it away and Ghostface returns his sickly grin.

Your body is lying still under the blankets as he steps in, pausing when the floor creaks but twisting his knife excitedly all the same. 

The moon tonight doesn’t offer much in the way of ambient light, but he can see well enough to approach your bed on the side you’ve faced in your sleep. Danny bends down close to your face, pulling up his mask for a better look. Your eyes flit behind your eyelids indicative of REM sleep. _perfect~._

Fixing his posture, his eyes travel lower as he raises his camera.

_”Hm? What’s this?”_

In the fashion of an investigative journalist, he begins to connect the dots and smirks. Maybe he’ll take his time with this little dissection.

A flash lights up your sleeping form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE FAUX WEENIE STRIKES AGAIN  
> Ghostface: Owo whats this


End file.
